


SWIPE RIGHT (or: THE TINDER AU)

by caravaggiosbrushes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: (i have a crush on him), (surprise surprise), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Falling In Love, First Time Blow Jobs, Flirting, Francis POV, Gay, Gay Sex, Kissing, M/M, Modern Era, Praise Kink, Rough Kissing, Slash, Texting, Tinder, bisexual king francis crozier, bridglar being the bookish husbands that they are, dundy special guest because i love him ok, james fitzjames being a flirthy lil bitch, james fitzjames in a skirt, just a hint of daddy kink, neptune is a good boi, writer james fitzjames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:05:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27400129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravaggiosbrushes/pseuds/caravaggiosbrushes
Summary: Francis is 51, single, almost two years sober. He has a nice job, a dog, and a Tinder profile he doesn’t use that much. One night, he decides to give the app another try. The rest is, as they say, history.-modern AU, written for the Fitzier Fall Exchange, on Kt_fairy's prompt “It was a dark and stormy night”
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 47
Kudos: 106
Collections: Fall Fitzier Exchange, The Terror Bingo, The Terror Bingo (2020)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kt_fairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/gifts).



> and after  [ the twitter AU ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25421740) , please welcome *drum rolls* **_THE TINDER AU._ **
> 
> I wrote this for the Fitzier Fall Exchange, on Kt_fairy's prompt “ _ It was a dark and  _ _ stormy night” _ . Writing something for you has been both amazing and challenging, because I've read SO MANY of your stories, you're one of my favourite authors in the fandom ;_; I took your prompt and started writing...and lost control over it and now we’re here with these too-many-words...ops. I’m very happy about it tho, and I hope you (and anyone else who’s gonna read it) will like it too ;;
> 
> Biggest thank you to Ewa for beta-reading chapter 1 and to Bea for listening to my ramblings about this  ♥♥
> 
> If you’re not familiar with Tinder: you swipe right on someone when you like them, swipe left when you don’t.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> [ ](https://ibb.co/3vH91zg)

_“What I have loved so far, I have loved in order to be able to love you.”_

_— Paul Celan, from a letter to his wife Gisele, 1952_

  
  
  


It is a dark and stormy night and Francis can’t seem to fall asleep.

He’s been tossing and turning in bed for the last couple of hours, unable to relax, the rumbling of the storm as a constant background noise.

He buries his face in the pillow, pressing it to his ears when yet another thunder blows out in the distance, so hard and loud it makes the glasses of every window vibrate violently.

He’s never been fond of storms. They remind him too much of his childhood, and for some reason he always feels lonely during a storm.

This is the exact situation in which the Francis of two years ago would have reached for the bottle; instead, the Francis of today, two years sober next November, shuts the thought away and reaches for his phone in the dark. It’s not like he has anyone to text (can’t possibly text Thomas at, -what is it?- 3am on a Wednesday night, to tell him he feels pathetic to be 51 and scared of storms) so he mindlessly browses through his apps, checking his emails, Linkedin and Facebook quickly -there’s nothing interesting in any of the three, but then again, it’s 3am,- and he’s about to switch the phone back off, when his attention gets caught by the reddish icon of the Tinder app, hidden in the depth of a folder which his phone automatically decided to label ‘Tools’. He has never changed it: the more that app is hidden away, the better. 

There's nothing wrong with dating apps, he doesn't judge anyone who uses them. He only judges himself, because, well… It's kind of pathetic not being able to find anyone on his own at 51 and having to rely on a fucking app. One that doesn't even work that well, either. He's had a couple of dates through it, but they've been a bigger disappointment each time. Even when he was texting the people he got matched with, before meeting them, he mostly did it out of curiosity or boredom, not because he was enjoying it: texting with someone who just talks and talks about her cat is not _exactly_ what Francis fancies. But he did his best to sound interested anyway, because at least he would get a nice fuck out of it, right?

Well, not really. He certainly doesn't expect to find his soulmate on bloody Tinder, but he's kind of disappointed about not even having got a decent one-night thing.

This is why he hasn't touched the app in weeks, too annoyed with it (but mostly with himself) to even open it and swipe left on every single person it suggests to him. 

It’s a stupid app, goddamnit. Rejecting people basing your judgement on four pictures, a name and a couple of ‘About me’ lines? It sounds disrespectful, really, as if he were choosing what to order for dinner. It even makes you choose your partner's age, as if that would be the main focus in a relationship. 

(Francis has set it between 35 and 55, because he doesn't feel like hooking up with someone who could be his _daughter)_.

Squinting at the screen in the dark, he notices that he has three new matches since the last time he checked. The first one, Sarah, is a 47 years old, divorced, "ready to start a new chapter in the book of life"— Francis swipes left.

The second one is Jennifer, 51, 3 miles away from him. She's a brunette with round glasses and a big smile (that's nice) and her bio sounds alright— until Francis spots a quote by Thomas Jefferson. He swipes left. No slavery supporters, thank you very much.

He almost loathes to see who's the last one, but decides to do it anyway. Grace, 47, 2 miles away. She's beautiful and… And that's it. Francis doesn't feel the barest hint of interest for her, so he swipes left, having no energy to engage in a conversation he'd put half of his mind to, at best.

He snorts in the dark and locks his phone. 

He must be the first man who fails to enjoy Tinder. 

Is it because he's too strict and selective? He just can’t force himself to feel something for someone he doesn’t fully fancy, is that so weird? Should he push himself to do it anyway? That doesn’t sound smart, but feeling alone isn’t appealing either, especially after all these years. After Sophia.

Perhaps he should try with a wider age range. Perhaps he should add ‘men’ to his preferences, too.

That's a thought. Francis unlocks his phone, goes to the ‘Setting’ section of his own profile and stares dumbly at the 'Preferences' option.

He has zero experience with men. He’s never even been in love with a man, except— well, except that thing that died before it was even born. Apart from that, he’s never been interested in anyone, not seriously, but there have been times, throughout his life, in which Francis has found himself wondering what would that be like, being with someone who's not a woman? Would he hate it? Could he enjoy it? Would he enjoy it _even more_ than being with a woman? That would be nice. He loves women, loves loving them and being loved in return by them, loves having sex with them, the softness of their bodies, loves to push his tongue into them and bury himself in their warmth. Would he feel the same, with a man? What is it even like, being with a man? 

Perhaps he should really try that. Tinder is a safer option than Grindr or another app exclusively for men, so it could be even better, like an experiment: he could set both men and women as his ‘Preferences’ and see what happens. No one will have to know and he can change it back anytime anyway, should something unpleasant happen. He hasn't had any luck with his female dates so far, so why shouldn't he try this? It's just for fun. Nothing serious. It’s not like he’s about to marry the first guy he gets matched with.

Now that he’s started thinking about it he can’t seem to push the thought away.

Francis selects the ‘men’ option holding his breath, almost expecting his phone to blow up in his hands.

It doesn't.

Nothing happens, nothing changes. The wind keeps blowing outside of his house, the rain still falls aggressively against the windows.

He doesn't have to tell anyone. It's alright.

Francis swallows hard and reminds himself to breathe, feeling a bit like an idiot for how worked up he got.

Well, then. 

Better try it out since he's here anyway. He goes back to the main page and he’s almost disappointed to see that the first choice is still a woman, but he left that option ticked as well, it makes sense. At least this is safe waters, he knows what to do. He swipes left without even looking at her -sorry, Katarina,- too eager to bite into the forbidden fruit now.

After another couple of swipes on the left his choices become a mix of both men and women and he finds a couple of blokes that are handsome… he supposes. It’s not like he feels anything, looking at their pictures. 

Francis groans out loud, feeling like a complete idiot.

Perhaps it’s simply time for him to stop playing a game he’s not included in anymore.

He sighs, deciding to give up, but when he’s about to close the app and put his phone away he notices the next person who’s suggested to him and— stops. 

The guy -James, his name is James,- in the picture is, well, handsome, but not just that. He’s beautiful. _Legitimately_ beautiful. With his first picture he has Francis’ entire attention and more: he’s intrigued, both by his ‘About me’ and his -handsome, beautiful, attractive,- face.

  
[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

James sounds easy going and funny, but not like he’s trying too hard. Most people Francis has encountered on Tinder either fill their ‘About me’ with boring information about their jobs and careers -he would have gone on Linkedin for that,- or with cringy jokes that make his skin prickle with second-hand embarrassment. This James guy, however, has an interesting few lines that all in all are unique, full of conversation starters and random, but interesting information.

(Especially the one about kissing three guys at the same time, that’s… quite the image.)

And James looks good. Very good. In his first pic he’s got short hair, carefully styled on the side in a cute wave that looks very soft. He's got dark hair and dark eyes, pale skin and he's really handsome, all polished in his black tie and white shirt, looking almost like a movie star. The picture looks professionally taken, it’s not just another grainy selfie with other people in it: it's entirely focused on him. James looks completely at ease and confident, smiling to the camera, dark eyes glinting, an eyebrow raised just-so as in questioning why would someone take a picture of him, why would someone look at him. As if he didn't know. 

It’s his smile that catches Francis’ interest the most: confident but honest, James looks in his element -whatever that might be,- and like he’s having a good time. His lips are slightly parted, possibly in the middle of a speech, perhaps he was telling a story, judging by how he’s got a hand suspended mid-air, as if he was moving it while talking to make his tale more vivid. He’s holding a glass of red wine in the other hand and the thing is: Francis can’t stop looking at him, can’t tear his eyes away from this guy’s face. And it’s only the _first_ picture. He’s tempted to swipe right already without even looking at the others.

...Thank god he hasn’t done that, because he would have missed _these_.

If the first picture showed how objectively attractive James is, the second one makes Francis huff a laugh, because apparently James knows how to take himself not too seriously: he's wearing a pair of comically large hot pink glasses with black dots, and he’s smirking playfully to the camera, one corner of his mouth raised up in a mischievous grin. It’s funny and real, a moment snapped out of this person's life, and it makes Francis only too eager to look at the next picture.

If he wasn't sure about swiping right on James yet (which he was), this is what wins his heart: it's a full-body length shot and wow, alright, James is lean and tall, with a pair of very nice legs. Not that Francis is an expert in admiring men’s legs, so his judgment doesn’t count anyway. Still, James’s legs are something to admire. And maybe touch. Kiss. Feel around his middle, tightening around him while—

_Anyway_.

What makes James gain even more points is the way he's gently holding a puppy in his arms, pushing his own face next to the dog’s, cheek to furry cheek. He's smiling like it's the best day of his life, with a big, bright smile, beaming at something -someone?- not included in the picture.

James looks good. _Very_ good, he really is beautiful, in every single shot. But most importantly, he looks like a real person, not just another Tinder persona: the pictures he chose to present himself with are unique, intriguing and authentic. 

Suddenly, Francis realizes he's been staring at his face for a while, lost in thoughts. He shakes himself out of the rêverie, a bit embarrassed, but he reminds himself that this is literally what the app is meant for. He’s not doing anything wrong.

In any case James will never match Francis back, because honestly, why would he? He's younger than Francis, attractive and interesting (he backpacked to the bloody _Everest_ ), and he’s not even going to look at Francis' profile twice before swiping left on him.

It's not like Francis will ever actually hear from him, so he has nothing to lose.

Francis looks at James' pictures once again, just because he can.

Then he swipes right.

*

The next morning, he switches his phone on, like any other day. Immediately, three notifications from Tinder pop up on the screen, making him growl into the pillow. He really has no time to waste trying to tolerate people who only want to talk about themselves, and most of all, he doesn't want another shitty date to another shitty—

Francis’ mind shuts itself. James, the guy from last night, got matched with him. Apparently, he matched Francis back. And not just that, but he's sent two messages already (at 7:31am).

_"Must be my lucky day_ ." James has written in the first one, which leaves Francis' still sleepy mind quite confused. His second message is: " _(Hello. Please ask me why is my lucky day)"_

Said sleepy mind doesn't dwell too much on the fact that a man, a beautiful man, has chosen Francis back, and since the question is a simple one he finds it surprisingly easy to text back.

_F: Hi._ _Why is it your lucky day_?

He gets up then, going about his routine, abandoning his phone on the bed. It's 8am anyway, James will probably have more pressing things to do than text him, and that’s fine, Francis has his own stuff to take care of.

Or so he tells himself, because feeding Neptune and washing his face is everything he manages to get done before reaching back for his phone, too eager to see if James has texted back. 

Indeed there is a new message.

J: _Because a gorgeous man swiped right on me last night, apparently_.

Francis' stomach does something funny at that. Then he frowns at his phone. James must surely text this to everyone he gets matched with, it's such a generic compliment that could be told to literally any other man. He decides to play along anyway, because at least it's not a cringy message and he's curious to see how long it'll take for James to get bored of him.

F: _I'm glad to hear that. Today must be his lucky day too, then_.

There, something safe and generic, but that still sounds nice (it does sound nice...right?).

J: _I hope so. That would please me immensely_.

J: _(I LOVE being pleased)_

J: _(but I also love to please. I'm quite versatile, in fact. In more than one department.)_

Francis does a double take at that. He’s not really sure what to say, so he tries to change the subject subtly.

F: _What do you like about this guy?_

J: _I don't know him (yet), but even just from his profile he's winning the jackpot here:_

J: _Daddy vibes_

(Francis almost chokes.)

J: _Smart, elegant_

Elegant? Thomas would die laughing.

J: _He’s got a sweet smile, oh my god you should see it, I can't stop staring at this picture of him smiling almost shyly? As if he didn’t know how handsome he is (that teeth gap! Ah!) And he looks broad_

J: _perfect to pin me down_

J: _or against the wall. I'm not picky._

Oh. Francis files that information away for later, not knowing exactly what to do with it right now, but nevertheless finding it very… interesting. Meanwhile James keeps texting him.

J: _And his bio? I love it: different from anything else I’ve seen here, it’s short but funny. He's not trying to convince you to like him, he’s almost *daring* you to like him._

J: _And he likes cats and has a dog (cute!)._

J: _In conclusion: 10/10 would date him straight away._

J: _But alas! He hasn't asked._

Francis stares at his phone as if he's never seen something like that, which indeed, he hasn't: no one has ever been so straightforward with him, ever, not even when he was in a relationship.

F: _I'm sure he's going to ask you as soon as he'll feel confident enough._

He keeps typing before James can answer.

F: _What about the daddy vibes?_

The answer comes at once.

J: _What about them? Don't tell me you don't know you give them off at like, maximum power_

J: _Because you do_

J: _God, you do_

...He does?

F: _Never been told, before. What is it that gives you that perception?_

J: _Oh, everything_

J: _You’re older than me, that’s an obvious start. Your stern but kinda soft gaze, as if you’re ready to both lecture me about my mistakes and praise me for how well I did._

J: _It feels like you know how to make people respect you._

J: _This is superficial, but I also love your beard._

F: _My beard?_

J: _Yes_.

J: _Would leave a nice burn on my thighs._

James’ words embolden him.

F: _Not just on your thighs_.

J: _Oh, that’s nice._

J: _Very nice._

J: _Are you so forward with everyone, or am I just lucky?_

F: _I’m not, usually. Must be your pretty face inspiring me._

F: _And those long legs of yours._

J: _What about them?_

J: _Tell me._

Those two words, almost an order, send a nice thrill along Francis' spine.

F: _I like them. You look tall and skinny_

_Skinny_ ? It sounds like a weird thing to say, god, what is he _doing_.

F: _I mean, like some kind of dancer._

J: _That’s sweet. And pleases me immensely, cause I love to dance and I actually thought about taking that career when I was younger. I’m no ballerina now, sadly, but I can dance well enough and make sure everyone involved has fun._

J: _Would love to give you a lapdance, daddy._

Francis definitely chokes now. If James keeps talking like this, he may not survive the next hour.

F: _Are you good at that?_

F: _Lapdances_.

J: _You don’t even know_.

Francis gives himself a moment to picture him, long limbs and wonderful legs, straddling Francis’ lap, moving fluidly in between his thighs and around him. Does James really mean this, or is he playing? Perhaps he's just texting Francis to pass the time. Perhaps he doesn't even dance and is making all of this up, just because he can.

(Francis doubts this is a lie. James sounds confident enough about it, proud even.)

He decides to push him a bit, see what James is going to do, if he’s going to take a step back or keep this up.

F: _You should let me know._

J: _I could show you._

J: _You're in London, I see._

Damn. He's going to ask Francis to meet, isn’t he? It would make sense, it's what Francis has done with every other partner he’s found on the app in the past, it’s what he would do with any other person, probably. But this is different. It _feels_ different, and not just because James is a man, even though that's a big part of Francis' skepticism: what if _Francis_ is the one who's playing? What if he’ll change his mind as soon as he sees James in person and realizes he’s been lying to himself about finding a man attractive, just to entertain himself for a while? He still has to take in what’s happening, this is happening too fast.

F: _Yes. You too? It says you're 4 miles away from me_.

J: _Me too. We're pretty close._

J: _Would you like that? Having me dance for you?_

He stares at their conversation, then settles for the truth, but keeping it generic enough, not pushing James away, but not encouraging him too much with the idea of seeing each other, either.

F: _Possibly too much._

J: _Have you ever had that? Someone dancing for you?_

J: _And I don't mean someone to dance with. Someone dancing FOR you._

F: _Never happened._

Then he adds: 

F: _Yet_.

J: _Well, it's great. Both dancing for someone and getting a dance. It's intimate and nice and always hot, without fail. Having someone so close to you, moving just for you. Every single thing they do, they do it for you and you only._

Indeed the idea is appealing, even though Francis couldn’t probably stand being the centre of attention like that. If it were just him and James, on the other hand…

F: _And you're good at that? Doing something for someone else's pleasure._

J: _I'm extremely good._

J: _Told you I love to please._

J: _It's kind of a kink of mine._

It’s just so _weird_ to stand here in the middle of his kitchen, kettle forgot on the stove because he's busy texting a complete stranger about his _kinks_.

And it's exactly because of this that Francis can't stop.

F: _You love being told that you're good._

He doesn't add a question mark at the end. There’s no need for one.

As expected, James' reply comes quickly.

J _: When I'm actually good, yes._

F: _This means you're good at following instructions._

J: _When I want to, yes._

And then:

J: _Try me_.

Fuck. Is he serious? Francis waits for another message, but nothing follows.

He's serious. 

Alright. He doesn’t really know what he should, or _can_ ask for. A picture feels like too much, it’s too soon. Something else, then, something easy and quick, not too invasive.

F: _You would do anything I'd ask?_

J: _I'm afraid that would be only possible with a partner, as I’m sure you will understand. But there are a great number of other things you can still choose from._

It makes sense and Francis likes that James is playful, but keeps it realistic, he's not just bragging or trying to impress him.

He’s thinking about what to ask for when his gaze falls on the pen and post-it block on the kitchen counter, that he mostly uses to write down his grocery list or scribbling while he's on the phone.

He texts James before he can change his mind.

F: _Write my name on yourself. Wherever you prefer, you choose. Use whatever you have on hand, a pen, a sharpie, anything._

For a moment, he's afraid James’ next message is going to be a string of laughing emojis, making fun of his silly request. 

But James does not laugh. What James writes is: _Are you always this possessive?_

And then, immediately after: _Hold on._

Francis stares at his phone holding his breath, but it takes only a minute to receive a new message.

J: _Done_.

He thinks about James writing " _Francis_ " somewhere on his body. What place has he chosen? Somewhere visible, where he can wash it away easily after, like his hand, his wrist? Or somewhere hidden by his clothes, more likely, like the crook of his elbow, or high up on his arm? Francis has told him "wherever" and "wherever" could indeed mean many things: James’ thigh. His ribcage. His hip. The side of his neck.

F: _How can I be sure of that?_

This time the reply takes longer to arrive, but when it does, Francis forgets about everything he was doing: James has sent him a picture. 

He almost expects to find a dick pic, but that’s not the case, thankfully (he’s not quite ready for that). Instead, James has sent him a completely innocent shot, that still has his blood’s temperature rise up: it shows the model’s _-James’-_ legs, from ankles to the highest part of the thighs, cutting out of the picture both his groin and feet, as well as the rest of his body. Judging from the inclination of the shot, James is reclined on what seems to be a dark green couch, his long legs resting elegantly on it, knees bent just so and legs tilted to the left so that his left inner thigh is showing— which is what makes Francis’ heart beat quicker: high above James’ left knee there’s his name. “ _F R A N C I S_ ” stands in capital black letters on his pale skin, the “F” closer to James’ groin, the “S” toward his knee. A black sharpie is placed next to him on the couch.

It’s such a simple picture, really, nothing scandalous is happening, but James has succeeded in making it erotic.

J _: Since you seemed fond of my legs_.

Fuck. This is how being flirted with is like, Francis realizes dumbly, zooming in the picture again and again (James’s handwriting is neat and beautiful, every single line of each letter following the same inclination).

_F: I like them even more now._

_F: Nice place to put my name._

_J: Nice place to put something else of yours, too_

_J: Daddy._

It feels like he’s just found a very special treasure, one that makes him feel pleasantly warm and lightheaded. The ‘daddy’ thing is a bit disorienting: not unpleasant per se, but it’s new and he has to get used to it. Get used to the idea of someone (someone like James) thinking of him like that.

_F: Are you going to be good and keep it on today?_

_J: I most certainly will._

Francis realizes he’s been grinning at his phone, feeling weirdly energized -and slightly aroused,- by the conversation, almost ready to climb a mountain with his bare hands. 

If this is what being appreciated by a man -by James- is like, then he's most definitely on board. 

*

In the end, James doesn’t get bored of him and Francis is certainly not annoyed by their endless conversation, quite the contrary in fact: he finds himself reaching for his phone again and again throughout the entire day. 

He's not used to text this much, it almost feels weird to have his phone constantly in his hands, even while working, and although he does his best to focus on his day his thoughts keep wandering back to James and all of his nice, quirky, teasing messages. Not all of them are explicitly on the flirty side (even though those remain the majority): they also talk about themselves, their lives, what they do, and even that turns out to be far more interesting than Francis anticipated. 

Perhaps this is because James elaborates every single question thoroughly, ( _"And what is your place in this capitalistic world of ours, Francis? What do you do for a living?_ ") and seems to actually listen to Francis' answers (" _You're telling me your transport company is called_ Terror _? Now I want to know how you make THAT work"_ ), but whatever the case might be, the thing is: he likes it.

Texting James is so easy it kind of shocks him. 

Their back-and-forth feels natural, as if they've done this their entire lives, and James keeps up with his teasing with no problem at all, his comebacks funny and stimulating as the man himself. So when Francis asks him what he does for a living and James says " _I'm a writer of queer historical novels_ ", naturally Francis teases him back with " _you're a fanfiction author_ ". James doesn't take it personally, but instead gets back to him with: " _You know what fanfics are? How many wonderful secrets are you keeping from me, Francis? I want to know every single one of them_."

(This leaves a smile on his face for half an hour. Possibly more.)

A couple of evenings later, after another entire day of texting, Francis finds himself waiting eagerly for James' next message (which turns out to be: " _Arroz de tamboril! I used to always have it when I was a kid, back at home. Now I’m pretty good at making my own. Have you ever had Portuguese cuisine, Francis?_ ") when he suddenly realizes that he likes talking to James and listening to whatever he has to say -and he has a lot to say on a lot of topics,- because he genuinely wants to know more about him.

It feels overwhelming for a moment. Then, he tells himself not to make this bigger than it actually is. It’s just Tinder. He and James are going to have a date, maybe two, a shag, and that will be it. 

_Don’t romanticize this_ , he tells himself, _Not this time. It’s nothing._

*

Francis wakes up the next day with two new Tinder notifications, and flashes of the -honestly too many- messages he has both sent and received from James come back to him, and James with them. James’ confident smile, James’ writing his name on his own inner thigh, James calling Francis _interesting_ , _intriguing_ and _Daddy_.

He opens their chat immediately.

J: _Would you like to read something of mine? I have a couple of interviews I did recently._

J: _Sadly, with no photos. You'll have to use your imagination to picture me._

Francis passes a hand over his face, rubbing sleep off his eyes, trying _not_ to use his imagination too much, because that's exactly a Francis Thing. He also tries not to picture James in bed, with his short hair all ruffled from sleep, face hidden in the pillow, expression soft and relaxed while he’s still half asleep—

It's 7:30am and James' messages are from half an hour ago - _the hell_ does he do up at 7am when he's a freelance writer?- so Francis also tries his hardest not to think about the fact that one of the first things James must have done once he woke up was texting him.

He really tries. Promptly finds himself grinning like an idiot anyway.

F: _I'd love that. It'll be a good read while I have breakfast._

F: _You even do interviews? Sounds like you’re pretty famous._

J: _Not that often really, and I mostly have them with small, independent newspapers and bookshops. Right now I’m doing a bit more since we’re approaching the release of my next book._

James has told him about his first novel, published two years ago, but he hasn’t mentioned a new one.

F: _When is that?_

J: _May 19th. :)_

That’s in four days, Francis notices.

F: _I would have offered my congratulations if I’d known you were about to welcome your secondborn._

J: _I CAN’T WAIT to have him!! He’s so beautiful, Francis, with his thick, navy blue spine and his golden details, and of course his many many pages (got those from his dad who likes to talk and talk)_

And indeed he likes to do that, Francis agrees, smiling to himself. 

He asks James all sorts of questions about it, because he has no idea what releasing a book is like, but mostly because he wants to hear James talk -or better, write,- about something he’s so clearly passionate about. 

He can almost feel the other man’s enthusiasm buzzing all the way into his own phone when he asks James what his book is about.

J: _Have you ever heard of the british expedition that disappeared in the Arctic in 1845?_

F: _I have, but I’m not an expert. You wrote about that?_

J: _I did! It’s so interesting I could talk about it for hours, but I don’t want to scare you off with my weirdly specific passion about dead sailors, so let me just say that it’s one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of our time and we STILL don’t know what happened to those men. Crazy, isn't it?_

_J: Anyway I made it queer_.

Francis chuckles to his phone. Like a proper idiot.

F; _How did you make that happen? In the middle of the bloody Arctic, in 1845?_

J _: I can’t possibly spoil it for you, now, Francis. Otherwise you’re never going to read it._

J: _And I would love for you to read it._

James is certainly saying this purely because he’s selling his product.

J: _Would you like to get a proof copy? :)_

...or not.

Francis starts his day with a smile on his face, a Tinder chat constantly open on his phone and a non-stop stream of James’ enthusiastic texts about dead queer sailors. 

And honestly? He wouldn’t change a thing.

*

For the rest of the day James keeps texting him now and then (” _in between work and yoga_ ”, which leaves Francis picturing him in booty shorts and a tank top) telling him random bits about his new book (that actually sounds really interesting, especially the part about the two Captains slowly but hopelessly falling in love) and his day (“ _London traffic should be illegal_ . _Can we go back to carriages and riding horses? I'm quite good at riding things")._

By now Francis has developed a pavlovian response to the short buzzing of his phone signaling a new message, his heart jumping a little every single time. He tells himself to stop this nonsense, he tells himself he has this under control, that it's fine, but when he takes a break from work in the afternoon, the first thing he does is of course checking his messages. He _knows_ he’s smiling, so he hides his face in his cup of tea and—

—and that wasn’t a smart idea, because James has sent him a picture, which turns out to be a _fucking selfie,_ so naturally Francis ends up choking on his tea, spilling hot water everywhere.

“Bloody fuck—” He swears, referring both to the mess he made and James, because James is _ohmygod_ -so-handsome and sweet in this bloody fucking picture and Francis really needs to sit down. Except that he’s already sitting down. 

Fuck. He quickly wipes the spilled tea from his desk and carefully puts the cup down before opening James’ selfie again. The selfie James has taken especially for him, oh god.

What almost killed Francis -literally,- was not even the fact that James is beautiful -he is, and so much,- but that James has long hair. Like, _long_ hair. Shoulder length long hair. And Francis didn’t know.

"Fuck." Francis says out loud, to his empty office. "Fuck." 

James’ Tinder pictures must be pretty old if his hair is _this_ long now. Long and _wavy_ , looking shiny and silky, almost too pretty to be real, as if it was painted by a skilled Romantic artist. 

Francis wants to touch it. He wants to push his face in it and discover what James smells like, if he shivers when kissed behind his ears, if he’d let Francis do that.

The selfie is pretty simple: it shows his face and shoulders, Francis can see the collar of a burgundy shirt and a black something (blazer? Cardigan? Jacket?) over it. He’s holding a book in one hand, _his_ book, Francis realizes, recognizing the front cover as the one on the PDF proof copy James has sent him earlier (the attached mail read: “ _Have fun with my queer dead sailors. Ahoy! PS: am I the only one who finds sailors extremely hot? Am I a walking stereotype? PPS: You’d look so hot in my Captain’s uniform_ ”). James is beaming at the camera, holding the book next to his face, smiling so widely that his eyes are reduced to cute half-moons, happiness and self-satisfaction obvious in every single line of his face. The only coherent thought Francis has is that one of James' front teeth is a bit crooked. It’s so damn cute, it makes him feel even more real. And gorgeous.

And he’s never going to like Francis back.

He’s still staring at the screen of his phone, unable to tear his gaze away from James’ face, from his strong, squared jaw, from those deep, straight lines next to the corner of his mouth, and his long hair, when another message pops up.

J: _I hope this isn’t a bad type of silence._

J: _Feel free to tell me if it is._

Occupied as he was in taking James’ appearance in, he forgot to reply and has been quiet since. If James only knew how _not_ quiet his mind currently is.

He scrambles to text back. Can’t have James thinking he’s anything less than beautiful, handsome, stunning.

F: _It's not a bad silence_

F: _Far from it. One million light years away far from a bad silence._

F: _It’s just_

Just that for the first time in my life I find someone so attractive it’s making it hard to remember my own name.

F: _You're gorgeous_

F: _And your book looks gorgeous too and I’m sure it’s a great read. Can’t wait to start it later_

F: _But you’re more gorgeous than the book anyway._

_God_ , it’s like now that he has finally seen him, seen him as he is _right now_ , he can’t stop telling him how lovely he is, and a river of awkward compliments flows out of him.

F: _I got distracted by your face_

F: _And your hair_

F: _I had no idea you have it long_

What a dumb thing to say, _of course_ he had no idea.

F: _You should put a more recent picture on your profile. You look so good_

He’s still typing when James answers.

J: _God, you’re sweet_

J: _So you like my hair. Very happy to hear that. The main reason I let it grow was because I lost a bet with a mate_

J: _The other reason is that I love having it pulled._

Francis is going to _die_.

He’s totally absorbed in the conversation, completely oblivious to his cup of tea getting cold, and his work-break being long concluded. 

F: _I’d love to push my hands in it. Feel how soft it is._

J: _I would purr for you_.

J: _Push my face in your hand, lick your fingers._

J: _Suck on them._

Francis shifts in his seat. His office isn’t the best place for this, but hell if he’s going to stop.

F: _Would you like it if I’d scratch behind your ears like the good pet that you are?_

The reply arrives instantly.

J: _please_

One word and Francis is utterly, completely, totally: fucked.

*

He likes him. Or well, he likes texting him. And looking at him. And reading his excited texts when James randomly finds The Rocky Horror Picture Show on the telly, then spending the night watching it along with him, finding it both comforting (because James has a weird or funny anecdote on almost every actor) and hot (because of course he ends up picturing him in a corset, make-up and heels, at which James casually texts back “ _I’m not very good with heels, but you can bet I look fucking fabulous in a corset and thigh highs”_ ).

Francis also likes that James sometimes uses some weird combination of emojis (and when Francis asks him what they mean, James never makes fun of him), but most of the time he avoids weird abbreviations and writes like the adult and the published author he is, respecting the punctuation and putting a real effort into every single one of his texts.

He likes how incredibly effortless it is to talk to him, so much that it still feels like a joke: it’s way too easy, it's what flirting has never been like for him. Francis is not used to such a relaxed atmosphere and he’s most definitely not used to enjoying this so much.

It feels fucking good. Out of this world. He honestly thinks the last time he felt this good has been with one of his first lovers, back in his teenage years, when everything was still a novelty. A lifetime ago. After that, things got complicated and dating has always felt like a chore to him, something he was expected to do because that's how things work, not because he liked it.

With James, on the other hand, Francis wants to do this. More: he craves it, grabbing his phone first thing in the morning to check for new messages, already hoping to find one from him (and there always is, with no exception). 

He also likes that James doesn’t pressure him or push him to meet him in person, which is something Francis really wants to do— and _that's_ the problem. He would like so much, _too much_ , to meet James, even right now, this very moment, but if there’s something Francis has learned in his life is that wanting something this fiercely never turns out well for him.

That’s why he’s been and still is very elusive about meeting James.

The other man never insists on it, but it’s obvious that he wants it: he’s been throwing hints at Francis since day one, sometimes in a casual comment, like that time he texted him “ _I’m having dinner at my favourite Greek restaurant tonight! Do you like Greek food, Francis? I’d love to bring you there, their moussaka is to die for_ ” or “ _I could show you how good I am with my hands in person_ ” which caused him a minor heart attack, because they were talking about drawing -which apparently is another thing James is good at,- so Francis wasn’t expecting _that_ reply.

Other times, he’s more explicit about it, like today. His first text this morning has Francis feeling a coward.

J: _Did I mention that I’ll be at the Charleston Festival until Friday to present my book? Any chance to see you for a good luck kiss before I leave tonight?_

It would be the perfect set up to meet him for the first time, because if _-when-_ James will realize he doesn’t like Francis they won’t be forced to spend any more time together in an awkward date, it’ll be just a quick goodbye, travel well, enjoy your Festival, and nothing more.

But he can’t bring himself to say yes. Truth is, Francis doesn’t want to lose this, even if _‘this’_ it’s almost nothing. Texting all day everyday with someone who probably likes him only because he’s good at hiding behind a screen and a couple of pictures isn’t something anyone should cherish. But Francis is weak and selfish and doesn’t want this— _thing_ with James to end, can’t let the only thing that makes him feel alive and confident -for how pathetic that might be,- to end.

So he pushes the danger _-James-_ away, once again, making up yet another excuse, holding his breath while he waits for an answer, which promptly arrives and it’s as sweet as every other text of his, because James is amazing this way, apparently.

J: _Don’t worry. 7pm in Victoria Station is a crazy time anyway, you’re not missing out on anything_.

_I’m missing out on you,_ Francis thinks, feeling bitter towards the world, but mostly himself.

*

Later, Francis is browsing through the PDF proof copy of James’ novel, unable to focus on work, still brooding about how big of an idiot he is.

Meanwhile, James is being weirdly silent, and has been like this for the entire day. At first, Francis thought it was because he was probably getting everything ready to leave, but when he doesn't get even one message in hours he starts getting restless.

What if he has fucked this up already?

By lunchtime he can’t stop obsessing about it, so he finally reaches for his phone, even if he doesn’t really know what to say, feeling like he’s walking on thin ice.

F: _Everything alright?_

Indeed James’ reply takes longer than usual. 

J: _Yes, I’m finishing packing for tomorrow. Busy day!_

And that’s alright. Right? That’s probably the truth, it makes perfect sense. Except that James doesn’t sound like his usual self, the text is way too plain and Francis can’t shake the feeling that there’s something wrong.

F: _Haven’t heard from you the entire day and_

He pauses. “And I miss you” sounds too desperate, even if it’s the truth.

F: _Haven’t heard about you all day and I was wondering if you were alright._

J: _It’s just not the best day I’ve ever had. Nothing serious._

F: _Sure about that? You can tell me about it. I’m good at listening_.

J: _I know you are._

J: _But it's nothing, really, don’t concern yourself, please._

F: _Alright. Is there anything I can do to improve your mood in any way?_

The three dots of James’ bubble speech stay on the screen for longer than usual, making Francis wonder if he’s become annoying with his questions. 

J: _You know what? There is._

Francis bites his tongue to prevent himself from smiling, excited to see what James is going to ask.

J: _You could send me a picture of your handsome face._

J: _I’m sure that is going to cure my moodiness immediately :)_

Francis’ smile leaves his face as quickly as it has appeared.

A picture of him? Right now? Bloody hell, but he’s so bad at taking pictures in general, let alone of _himself_. He inevitably thinks about James’ own selfie, the one with his novel and his lovely face and his perfect, long, shiny hair, and well, everything else. James is born to be looked at, but Francis… he avoids it, if not strictly necessary.

But James is asking this of him, as nicely as ever -he even called Francis _handsome,-_ so perhaps Francis can suffer a little and make this little sacrifice for him, since it's something James wants.

He takes a deep breath, mentally steeling himself, and opens the camera app.

The first picture he takes makes his face burn with embarrassment as soon as he sees his too big of a smile, showing that horrible gap in his front teeth.

The second picture has him grumbling and pushing his stupid hair down, trying to give it a decent shape.

By the third attempt he feels hopeless, so he just takes it, without giving it too much thought, and it turns out surprisingly pretty decent: he’s smiling just so, doesn’t look as stiff as before (even if he still feels like it) and his hair doesn’t look as bad as in the previous one. He sends it to James before he can delete it and gets mad at himself for that.

F: _Be aware that I never take selfies, but you asked, so… this is for you._

He mentally thanks the heavens that his nervousness can’t be perceived via photograph nor phone. He feels like an idiot, having his heart in his throat waiting for James’ reply as if it were his death penalty.

James starts typing.

Then his bubble speech disappears. 

Fuck, is it so bad that he doesn’t even know what to say? Francis contemplates throwing his phone out of the window to avoid looking at the answer.

James is typing again and then—

J: 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍🤒😳!

Francis starts breathing again, even if he’s now having trouble keeping his excitement under control. He’s so giddy he feels like going out and showing James’ text to every single person he might meet. 

But James is not finished yet.

J: _Indeed your beautiful face just made my feel 100 times better_

_Beautiful_? Francis’ ears feel warm, he’s glad he’s in his office alone.

J: _You’re so damn hot, I demand you’ll send me AT LEAST one picture a day (but please make it more than one)_

J: _Fuck I love your eyes_

J: _And your smile_

J: _I can't stop looking at you and I'm thinking about where I'd like to kiss you the most._

Francis can’t stop grinning at his phone, feeling a little bewildered at all this.

F: _Where would that be?_

F: _Where would you kiss me?_

J: _Right now I'm thinking on your neck. On the side, under your ear._

J: _How do you feel about bites? Because I'd love to bite down on your skin._

F: _You'd mark me._

J: _Would you let me?_

He doesn’t have to think about the answer.

F: _Yes_.

J: 😍😍😍❤️💕💓💖

*

Francis wishes him a safe trip at 7pm on the clock, when he knows James is getting on his train right at Victoria Station, right where Francis could meet him for a quick _hello, nice to meet you, what about that kiss you promised me?_ before he’d leave. But Francis is not at Victoria Station, because Francis can’t face his own desires. He has no problem facing his fears and the situations that scare him, but his desires? The things he craves and wants and would like to keep hidden away inside of himself forever, lest someone could steal them from right under his nose? He can’t face those, hasn't learnt how to do it in 51 years.

And since he feels a lot like an idiot and a bit guilty for his behaviour, he tries to make up for it by texting James more often than usual, keeping him company during his two hours of train trip.

This is what he tells himself. Truth is, as soon as he puts his phone down, he misses James. He misses hearing about everything James might have to say, his random comments about trivial things, like how crowded Victoria Station is at this time, or about that group of tourists who asked him to take a pic of them right in front of the tube sign (“ _Weird choice of placement. They were sweet though_ ”), and how excited he is about going to the Festival. 

At this point, Francis has come to terms with the fact that he can’t stop talking to James, or thinking about him when they’re not texting each other. And the amazing thing is: it seems to be the same for James.

Francis loves how James tells him so much about himself with little comments here and there, always sounding casual and easy, but after almost a week of constant texting he realizes that he knows what James’ favourite dish is (seafood spaghetti: he’s had it for the first time as a kid, when he was in Italy), where he went on holiday last summer (he walked all the way to London from Nankin, crossing both Tibet and Russia) and how James takes his coffee (“ _I like my coffee the way I like my men: hot, bitter, strong and with an undertone of spiciness. I’m addicted to cinnamon coffee ;)_ ”).

He loves how James asks him easy questions that make Francis really part of his life, like when James texts him, completely out of the blue: _Francis, quick, what do I pick? Spicy curry tofu or vegan noodles soup?_

F: _Does the soup have edamame beans in it?_

J: _Yes._

F: _Get the spicy curry thing._

J: _What’s your problem with edamame beans?_

F: _They’re kinda slimy._

J: _You’re adorable._

A minute later James sends him a picture of his Wasabi paper bag: _I got the tofu :)_

It feels so natural for him to bring Francis into his everyday life, making him feel wanted and needed and Francis might be a little bit obsessed with the feeling.

And with James.

*

The next day, Francis wishes him good luck for his first day of Festival and for the panel where he’s going to present his book, which James was feeling a bit worried about.

He feels so light on his feet every time he wakes up with James’ texts already there to greet him, so the least he can do for him on his big day is send him a nice text, hoping that he’ll read it first thing when he wakes up.

F: _Just wanted to wish you good luck for today, you’re going to do incredibly well. You’re great with words, both written and spoken, don’t forget about it. I’ll be thinking about you at your panel’s time. 5pm, right?_

J: _You remembered! 5pm, yes._

J: _I’ll let you know how it goes._

J: _Thks for the text_ 💖

His phone buzzes again a few minutes later, while he’s making breakfast. He grabs it without even having to think about who that might be, already knowing the answer. 

His heart jumps in his throat when he sees that James has sent him a picture. After his first selfie, he’s started sending more and more, to the point that now Francis gets at least one pic of his beautiful face every single day. He’s doing his best to do the same with his own pictures, and James’ enthusiastic comments are always a big push for him to do it even when he’s not feeling self-confident at all.

Francis stares at his phone, almost transfixed, looking at James.

At James in bed.

At James in bed, clearly just woken up, with bed hair, _ohmygod_ , his dark, long hair falling in waves on his naked _-naked!_ \- shoulders, a lock of it falling in front of his half-closed eyes, still unfocused with sleep. He’s laying on his front, his mouth and nose hidden into the white pillow he’s apparently embracing.

He looks so soft and sweet like this, with no barriers between himself and Francis, letting himself be looked at, completely unguarded, trusting him.

And he’s of course so very handsome that Francis loses track of time.

He can’t stop staring at James' naked shoulder -strong, muscular,- and oh god, is he completely naked under the covers? Does James always sleep naked? Francis wonders what he looks like under the soft blankets, body pleasantly warm and soft and loose with sleep. God, he would love to spoon him from behind, embracing him completely, burying his face into his hair, pulling him against himself, not an inch of space left between them, and slowly grind his cock against him while peppering his shoulder with kisses.

Would James like it? Francis has never done anything like that with another man, but oh god. He wants it. So much.

He’s still daydreaming about being with James when his next texts arrive:

J: _I won’t probably be on the phone much today, so here’s something to make myself be forgiven._

J: _I’ll be thinking about you a whole lot_ _though_

J: _Hope this will make you think about me too ;)_

If Francis blushes that’s alright because there’s no one here to witness it.

  
  


James is indeed quiet for the rest of the day and Francis has no right to miss him, really, but he can’t prevent it. 

He busies himself with work the more he can, but his mind keeps going back to James: is he enjoying the Festival, has he managed to meet all the writers and authors he wanted to see? How’s his panel going, is he happy with the questions he got? Francis knows he’s going to do just fine, great even, but he can’t wait to hear it from James, who always recounts each and every one of his days as if they were the greatest adventure ever told, making Francis part of it just the same, as if he were physically there with him.

At 6pm, when his panel should be finished, Francis opens their chat.

F: _Can’t wait for your full report about how amazingly well it went and how you charmed everyone with your deep and detailed knowledge of queer Victorian sailors_.

He doesn’t expect an immediate reply, of course, but he doesn’t even expect to spend the next two hours without a single word from James. 

He tries to remind himself that it’s alright, because James is probably still enjoying the Festival. As it should be.

He's probably just celebrating and having fun with his colleagues, or whatever.

He hasn’t forgotten about Francis. It’s going to be fine.

It’s almost 10pm when his phone finally buzzes.

J: _no one was charmed. It was shit_

Wait, what? Is this the reason why James hasn’t texted him for hours? Francis feels a bit like shit for having been so preoccupied with himself that he didn’t even question if James was alright.

F: _Fuck, James I’m sorry. What happened?_

J: _I fucked it up that’s what happened_

F: _I could be wrong, but you were extra prepared for this, and no one could have been more suitable for the occasion. You don’t seem the type to get stage panic either, so…?_

J: _I did not it wasnt that_

J: _t’s jsut. we agreed on some questions but then Irene changed them without telling me so I made an idiot of myself_

Francis frowns.

F: _Irene? Was she your co-panellist?_

J: _yes_

J: _was supposed to ask me the questions we worked on together because those were INTERESTING and ppl would have listened and liked them_

F: _And instead she changed everything without telling you just right before the panel? Well, I’m no expert in interviewing people, but that doesn’t seem very respectful and it just makes no sense. Making it hard for you for no reason, when you two should have worked together in a back and forth, because that’s what every panel should be like._

F: _I mean, it sounds like she’s not really good at her job. Hope she doesn’t do stuff like that every time._

J: _I dont think she does!! she’s usually very ok i liked her that’s why i was so excited about it too_

F: _See? She’s been the one making a mistake. Not you. It’s not your fault, James._

J: _it is because i should have been able to answer anyway and i did not_

J: _i mean i did answer but my answers sucked_

F: _I’m sure they didn’t. You’re good at talking and writing, I’ve read your interviews, I’m reading your book now and it shows that you know what you’re doing._

J: _not sure about that_

Oh no, no way, Francis is not having James Fitzjames, author of two well-received historical novels and smart human being in general, doubting himself.

F: _Well, I am. You’re good. Very good or you wouldn’t be a published author who gets invited to cool literary festivals. Right?_

James’ bubble speech appears and disappears a couple of times.

J: _i guess_

J: _maybe it wasnt that much shitty_

F: _Agreed, I don’t think it was that bad. You said you did answer all of her questions, right?_

J: _yes_

J: _and ppl didnt leave so i guess that’s good_

J: _?_

It’s weirdly sweet how James is accepting Francis’ attempts to comfort him, purposefully choosing to listen to him after a bad day instead of shutting himself away from the world.

F: _That’s very good. People couldn’t care less about staying if they weren’t enjoying it, they would have left in a heartbeat, trust me._

J: _yes. youre right i think_

J: _i just. dunno probably thought too much about this_

J: _i wanted it to be perfect_

J: _as it was in my head_

James’ texts keep coming, one after the other.

J: _fuck i’m sorry i’m rambling. didnt want to share all of this shit with you francis i’m sorry i’ll shut up_

J: _but honeslty. she could have told me_

J: _ok i’ll shut up now_

J: _sorry_

J: _sorry for oversharing_

J: _ok im done_

J: _promise_

J: _please make me shut up o h god_

He should find James’ mild-panicky state quite so charming, but he can’t stop thinking about the fact that James is texting _him_ , venting about it with _him_ , and no one else.

F: _James, listen to me: it’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong, you’re not the one being wrong here._

F: _And feel free to overshare. It’s cute._

J: _not cute. i’m blablablaing_

And oh god, isn’t _that_ cute.

J: _i proably sound annoying AS FUCK like every time i get sad drunk_

J: _or mad drunk in this case_

Okay, this is not something Francis would like for him, at all. He fervently hopes James is going to be alright, probably hungover in the morning, but not seriously depressed about what happened. 

F: _Where are you? Not getting yourself wasted alone, I hope? You don’t deserve that._

J: _i’m back in my hotel room dont worry daddy_

(He will never get used to James calling him that.)

J: _if i dont deserve that. what do i deserve?_

_Anything you desire_ , Francis thinks, _Anything at all._

F: _Nice things. Beautiful things. Things that make you happy._

He’s afraid of having said too much, but it’s James’ reply that leaves him speechless.

J: _talking to you makes me happy_

It takes Francis a moment to start functioning again.

F: _Really?_

J: _yes. You listen to what I have to say_

Francis stares at his phone, confused.

F: _Of course?_

J: _its not obvious_

His bubble speech stays on the screen for a long time.

J: _you could talk to me just because you want to have a free pass to my agent or because youre only interested in tips on how to get published or because you want to fuck me which I hope you want to do and I think you want and I’m ecstatic about that but theres also something else about you. You listen to me_

J: _wait i said that already_

Francis reads his text, then reads it again and again, stopping on the “ _because you want to fuck me which I hope you want to do_ ” and the “ _I’m ecstatic about that”_ (James is the kind of person who uses the word “ecstatic” when he’s drunk) and the _“you listen to me”_ , hardly believing this is all real, all for Francis to enjoy. He can’t believe James has chosen him, can’t believe he met him via bloody Tinder, because honestly, how many possibilities are there of meeting such a beautiful person on that stupid app? Close to zero, probably. And yet, there he is, texting James non-stop, receiving his wonderful selfies and sending him his own (this is such a wild thought on itself), being called _‘daddy’_ and _‘handsome’_ by someone so clever, smart, attractive and unbelievably hot. Francis stops and thinks about all of this, about how lucky he’s been, and perhaps, for once, he shouldn’t let this opportunity go to waste. What he should do is grab it with both hands and defend it.

_James,_ he starts texting, _would it be alright if I’d call you?_

He’s typing “I know it’s late”, but James interrupts him.

J: _!!!!!YES_

He can feel a big smile blooming on his face.

F: _Alright. Good. You should give me your number then, sweetheart._

The endearment comes so naturally that he doesn’t even second guess it. It’s simply what James deserves to be called.

J: _fuck francis dont call me like that you’re gonna killl me_

J: _keep calling me like that i love pet names_

Francis chuckles to his phone, his heart in his throat, feeling wonderfully alive.

He takes a deep breath and saves James’ number in his contacts. And then he’s calling him.

He’s never been so jittery over a simple call, but he couldn’t care less. Everything he’s thinking about is _JamesJamesJames_.

He picks up at the first ring.

“Hi!” James’ voice is a bit too loud, making him jump, “sorry, ah- hello.”  
He chuckles, sounding a bit breathless, and Francis is probably about to pass out, because his voice is _deep_.

“Hi, James. Hello.” He bites his lip. “How are you? Are you alright?”

“Yes.” James lets go of a sigh and a little laugh, “Yes, don’t worry, I’m good. Graham always says I’m a drama queen. Guess he’s right after all. I’m sorry about my messages, I hope I wasn’t annoying you too much?”

His words are a bit slurred with one another, giving away his state and it’s so bloody intimate and Francis loves it. He feels sorry about the hangover James’s gonna have in the morning, but apart from that, nothing serious happened, so he can let himself enjoy this James, drunk on wine and possibly as jumpy as Francis feels, if his excited voice is a good hint.

“It’s alright being a bit over the top sometimes.” Francis reassures him, making both of them laugh, feeling the tension fade a bit. “I know how much you wanted this to go well.”

“Oh god yes, I must have told you way too many times.” James actually groans. “I’m sorry about that, I just can’t stop talking sometimes.”

“I’m glad you did it.” He reassures him. “I like it. When you tell me stuff about your daily life, I mean. It feels good. Like I’m part of it.”

What a pathetic thing to say. He shuts his mouth.

James doesn’t seem to find it bad though, he’s basically purring into his phone and his tone is somehow even lower and deeper when he says: “course you are.” 

And Francis can’t help it. “Christ, I love your voice.”

“You do?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“Yeah. Very much so. Keep talking?” 

James huffs a disbelieving laugh.

“Why?”

It's so easy to answer. “I like to hear you talking.”

James is quiet for a long moment.

“Francis, you really have to stop saying these things.”

He frowns. “Things like...?”

“Nice things.”

He doesn’t understand. Does James find it annoying? Has Francis overstepped?

“But I want you to know them, because it’s what I think.”

Again, James doesn’t speak immediately, as if he’s pondering what to say.

“How are you single?” He says at length.

Francis’s frown deepens. “I told you, my last relationship ended—”

“No, what I mean is _how_ are you single? How the fuck has your ex left someone like you. That’s what I’m saying.”

Francis is about to protest that he’s not good at relationships and that it wasn’t Sophia’s fault (how strange it is to think about her while talking to James for the first time) but James stuns him into silence: “I would never let go of you, if you’d be mine.”

His voice is fierce, exuding violence, almost.

Francis has no words for this, at all. He licks his lips in a nervous tick. His hands are sweaty, his heart beating slowly but too hard, every beat is like a hit in the centre of his chest.

“You can't know that.” He eventually manages to say, even if what he really means to say is _then be mine_ , but he can't possibly say that, because he has never even _met_ James, and most importantly James has never met _him_.

“But I do.” James says, “I do—”

He’s interrupted by a yawn, and just like that the tension is broken down once again. Francis’ chest stops hurting, his lungs fill with oxygen again and he forgets what he was planning to say.

“’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.” Says James.

“Don’t apologise, it’s fine. I’m the one keeping you up.”

“Yeah, but I like this.” 

Francis suspects a smile in his voice.

“Me too.” He says. “You should probably get some sleep, though. You’ve got that other thing in the morning, right? The presentation of that other book you wanted to see?”

“You remembered.” This time Francis is certain about the smile in his voice. “Yes, I still want to see that. And I should let you sleep as well.”

“Right.” Francis is not going to mention that it’s very unlikely for him to get any sleep anytime soon after this conversation. “Well, then. Goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight, Francis. Thank you for calling me.” He murmurs, sounding more asleep by the minute. “Sleep well. Dream of something nice.”

_I’ll dream of you, then_.

“You too, sweetheart.”

*

The next morning Francis wakes up with no Tinder notifications and it’s such a novelty that it left him confused for a second. Then, he notices a new message on WhatsApp and everything from last night comes back at once. He turns on his side and opens the app.

J: _Oh my god, I’m so sorry about last night. I’m so embarrassed._

How can a grown up man be so sweet and cute when he’s simultaneously the hottest person to have ever walked the Earth, Francis muses.

F: _You were perfectly alright, nothing to worry about. How’s your head?_

He ponders about asking if he remembers their call. James wasn't that far gone, he must remember. Francis fervently hopes he does.

As if he were reading his thoughts, James texts him again.

J: _Feels like someone has punched me repeatedly last night :( but I guess I should have expected it._

J: _I remember your voice_ 😍

Relief floods him immediately. He’s so glad James hasn’t forgotten, because it would have been a shame to lose it.

J: _But I don't remember much of what I said._ _Please tell me I haven't made a fool of myself_?

F: _You haven’t, I assure you_.

F: _You were a perfect gentleman_.

James sends him one of his weird combinations of emojis: a dancing lady, a partying emoji, two sparkles and the pink sparkly heart.

Francis treasures it as one might do with a love letter.

*

J: _So, I have this thing tonight_

It's early afternoon when Francis finds himself with butterflies in his stomach upon getting a new text from James. Like a bloody schoolgirl.

J: _Not sure what to call it exactly, so I can’t decide what to wear. Care to help? :)_

F: _Of course. Is this something work related?_

He fervently hopes it is, because that would cross out the possibility of a date. Because James could have a date. He could have a date with someone who’s not Francis. It would be alright. It’s not like they’re together or anything. He could do that. Perhaps he met someone at the Festival, another cool author with perfect hair, tortoiseshell round glasses and tailored pants, much smarter and refined than Francis. It would be alright.

Francis would hate it so much.

J: _Not work._

Oh, fuck, it’s a date. Fuck, fuck.

J: _I guess you could call it a rescue party._

Francis frowns. A what?

_J: Dundy (my agent) has accepted a date with this colleague of his, out of pure exhaustion really, so I'll have to offer my services and save him._

J: _The plan we conceived is the following: I'm going to CASUALLY be at the same bar they’re having drinks and I'll be that friend who has a lot of unresolved sexual tension with Dundy. And when I say a lot, I mean A LOT: it has to be obvious, so Dundy can escape safely_

Francis is already grinding his teeth in frustration, but the next text thankfully makes him stop.

J: _AKA we can escape and crush on my hotel bed with beer, fizzy lemon candies and whatever junk we can find on TV._

J: _So naturally I have to be at my best, to discourage Dundy’s date, you see. I'm shopping right now, but I’m having a hard time picking the perfect pair of bottoms._

Alright, this is way better than what Francis was dreading, he can let go of the breath he was holding.

F: _Let me see so I can offer you my insight._

F: _Although I know you'd look great in anything._

Paying James compliments has gotten easier and easier with every passing day, with every conversation they shared, and Francis doesn’t even have to think about it anymore.

J: _You think so?_

F: _I know it._

J: 😍

J: _Alright, option one. Skinny jeans. I picked them because, honestly? My ass looks great in these._

Francis gets the picture while he’s telling himself to keep calm, because he’s (technically) working, he’s in his office, and spending his time texting is already bad enough, so he really, really can’t— 

_Jesus fucking bloody Christ on a bike_ — James is posing in front of a full body length mirror, fitting his entire figure in it. There’s a dark curtain behind him, a backpack and a pair of dark leather shoes on the floor, a pair of dark blue pants hastily folded on the stool between him and the mirror. And that’s alright.

What is less alright is that James is incredibly fucking tall and beautiful ( _come on, Francis, you already knew this, get a hold on yourself!_ ) and his hair looks like melted chocolate cascading on the side of his face, half hidden by his shiny iPhone. It’s true that James has a full-body picture on his Tinder profile, but this is different, this one has been taken just for Francis to see, it’s a moment cut out of James’ life all for him to admire. 

He’s marvelling at how tall and broad James is, with wide shoulders but a narrow waist highlighted by the skinny jeans. They cling so well on his long, _long_ legs, as if they were made for him and him only. He’s wearing a shirt with the first few buttons undone (oh god) with some kind of tiny printed pattern on the light blue shade and he's looking at his iPhone's screen, the corner of his mouth not hidden by it lifted in a subtle smirk. And apparently, those long lines of expression at the sides on his lips deepen when he smiles and it looks like he’s got _fucking_ _dimples_.

Francis curses under his breath.

He can't tear his gaze away James’ legs: they go on for miles, they're long and strong, and his thighs— Francis' own legs feel like jelly, he’s ready to fall on his knees and push his face against James and find out what it’s like to give someone a blowjob. To give James a blowjob.

He starts texting.

_Wow_. He deletes it.

_Buy them. Then wear them for me._ Deletes it.

_You look so fucking good, I want to tear those clothes off you and push you against that mirror so you can look at yourself while I grind on you and see how beautiful you are_. Deletes it.

_You look good. Very good. Fucking incredible. You should get them. Definitely._ He sends it. 

F: _I still want to see the second option_. 

James sends him a blushing emoji and a winking one.

J: _You make my self-confidence shoot out the roof_.

And after a few seconds:

J: _Option two._

The second picture shows James wearing the same light blue printed shirt as before, but he’s not wearing jeans anymore. 

His skirt is long, just barely below knee length. It’s simple, completely black, no pattern, no inserts of any kind. It looks flowy and soft to the touch and it goes straight down on his hips and legs, has no added volume to it. He has tucked his shirt into it, highlighting his narrow waist once again.

Francis drops his phone.

" _Fucking—_ Jesus." 

He picks it up, his heart beating so fast he can feel it in his ears. His dick, already quite interested with the first picture, gets harder in the span of approximately two seconds and a half. He's so surprised and shocked that he can't even think of an interesting reply, just keeps staring at the picture wide-eyed, because James is not just incredibly beautiful and lovely and perfect, but James is also wearing a _fucking skirt_. Francis has to palm and adjust himself a little, because he’s having major problems here and he's kind of tempted to cave in and take himself in hand and reach his peak with this wonder in his eyes, but he’s in his office, can’t possibly do that, not really, even if he could just lock the door for a little while and quickly— no. He can’t do that.

His hands are sweaty. 

J: _Hope it wasn't too much._

Francis fumbles with his phone to reply, begging his clouded mind to find something to say that would succeed in expressing his state.

F: _No_

F: _God no_

F: _It was not too much_

F: _Well actually it was, because that has melted my brain_

F: _You look so fucking good_

F: _So good James. It's 3pm I can't say the things I'd like to say_

J: _please do. please tell me_

J: _tell me what you like about it._

Fuck it, Francis is going to tell him. All of it.

F: _You. I like you I like you wearing those jeans and I like you in that skirt, fuck, so much. Do you dress like this often? Because you should. Your legs are incredible_

J: _Thank you daddy_

This is not bloody helping—

J: _Not everyone likes it, so I wasn’t sure about your reaction, but you didn’t disappoint me. You keep gaining points._

F: _Am I close to the main prize, then?_

J: _Very_

He wants it. So much.

F: _What else do I have to do to get it?_

J: _You could start with telling me why you like me in this skirt_.

This is an easy one.

F: _I love that you’re wearing it. I love that you’re showing it to me. Love how you just did it without making a big deal out of it. I love the idea of you wearing nothing underneath it- are you? Your legs look gorgeous. You look gorgeous. You look confident that’s so hot._

J: _ahh fuck_

J: _Having a boner in a fitting room in the middle of the day wasn’t my plan but i don't regret it keep talking_

J: _what else_

Francis takes a shuddering breath. He’s almost fully hard by now, can’t help it, there was no way he could have prevented this from happening, not with James looking like that, saying things like “ _tell me what you like about me in a skirt_ ”.

Francis texts: _i want you to sit on my face_

J: _fUCK_

Emboldened by the answer he goes on, relief flowing in his veins mixed with arousal.

F: _holding up that beautiful skirt of yours while you ride my face_

J: _oh mygod francis_

J: _yes_

J: _please_

J: _I would like that very much_

F: _you're so polite_

Can he say what he’s dying to say? He’s too far gone to stop now and this feels like flying, it feels like being pleasantly drunk while totally clear headed.

F: _Such a good girl_

James’ bubble speech appears immediately.

J: _say that again_

J: _please say that again please pls eas_

F: _You’re such a good girl asking me what you should and shouldn’t buy, so well behaved_

J: _I_

_j: francis_

J: _brb i have to go or im gonna cum i my pants in this fcking fitting room ill be back in a minute_

J: _I'm hard ill have to keep my bag in front of myself or smth_

F: _I’m hard too, sweetheart. It’s all your doing_

F: _I’ll be here waiting for you_

While James is busy, Francis can’t stop texting him. 

F: _and i want to see what you look like under that skirt and I want to find out what you like, so I can give it to you, make you moan again and again. Are you quiet in bed? Bet you're not. I know you like to be listened to, bet you love that in bed too._

F: _Not that it has to be a bed. Would have you anywhere. Pinned against the wall. Down on my kitchen table. On the floor_.

Francis is gripping his phone and the armrest of his chair to prevent himself from doing something absolutely idiotic like jerking off in his office in plain daylight because his— _the person he’s obsessed with_ is the hottest thing he’s ever laid his eyes on. 

Thankfully, it doesn't take long for James to get back to him.

J: _im here_

J: _oh fuck yes to everything_

J: _especially the wall_

J: _but the kitchen table too. big yes. splayed out for you_

(Oh god.)

J: _walking out of that shop has been so hard_

J: _literally_

This has Francis actually laugh, despite the blood ringing in his ears.

F: _You’re still hard?_

J: _Yes fuck you cant say things like that and expect me not to be_

F: _I didn't expect that._

J: _you’re terrible_

J: _I love this side of you_

J: _and I’m bloody stuck in my rented car with a hard on_

F: _could you maybe jerk off there?_

(He almost passes out just picturing that.)

J: _not sure I can. Would be too embarrassed if someone would walk on me_

J: _Even tho I'm so hard it would only take a couple of strokes_

J: _That's all i need_

_Jesus Christ—_ the image of James being hard right now, alone in his car, so close to the edge that everything that would take him to finish would be Francis’ hands on him, maybe Francis’ mouth on his cock, _oh god_ , what does is cock look like? Could Francis fit all of it in his mouth? Would he be able to do that? He has no idea what that’s like, but his mouth waters at the mere thought. He has never wanted another man in his mouth before, hasn’t even fantasized about it, but right now he would sell his soul for this. He wants it so much he can’t think of anything else, just James in his mouth, James on his tongue, sucking him until James comes hard, pulsing in his hand.

He starts texting.

F: _I want to suck you off_

J: _fuck francis_

J: _I really need to go. home_

F: _go, i'll be here for you when you’re ready_

Then he adds: _hurry_ , for good measure.

Time seems to stop after that. Francis doesn’t even know how long it should take James to get back to his hotel, it could be ten minutes as well as an hour. Oh god, he prays it won’t be an hour. He needs James, feels like he’s going adrift without him, without his texts, without his presence to ground him, and he’s so hard that he doesn’t even know what to do about it. He can’t relieve it, but he can’t keep on working as nothing's happening because _lots_ of things are happening. In his pants, in fact.

He tries to close his eyes, but that only has him envisioning James’s pictures behind his eyelids. He tries to put his phone down, but he takes it back up again a few seconds later, unable to stop thinking about it. He groans out loud, thanking the heavens he doesn’t share his office with anyone else, and keeps glancing at the time on his phone, but the numbers just _don’t fucking move_ —

His phone vibrates in his hands and Francis’ body understands what’s happening even before his mind does: his cock jerks in his pants, his hands shake a little.

J: _I’m in my hotel room_

He doesn’t even have to think about what to write.

F: _take off your clothes_

J: _yes_

He doesn’t stop to think, just follows his guts.

F: _Dont touch yourself. not yet_

F: _Lay down. Wherever you want_

James’ replies are instant.

J: _im on the bed_

J: _Do u want to see_

Francis’ entire being screams ‘ _YES!_ ’.

F: _was about to tell you to take a pic of yourself_

F: _you're such a smart boy_

J: _fuckfrancis im so hard u have no idea_

J: _hold on_

He waits, staring at their conversation so intensely his eyes water. His heart is beating way too fast, he feels it in his head and in his throat. He stops pretending he can get a hold on himself and finally rubs his hand on own erection, over his jeans, biting back a noise.

His phone buzzes again. Francis holds his breath.

The picture shows James naked, or at least with no shirt, no jacket, nothing at all: his shoulders, chest, stomach and hips fill the picture with miles of pale skin contrasting against the dark blue bedsheets he’s laying on. James is holding his phone with one hand high up over himself, neck arched to the side, and he’s biting at his knuckles, the straight line of his jaw creating a harsh shadow on the side of his neck. His wonderful hair is a dark halo around his face, at least up to the point Francis can see, because the picture doesn’t show James’ eyes, nor his cock or the rest of his lower body, but there is still so much to look at that Francis can't decide _where_ to start, overwhelmed by James’ inviting unmarked skin, James’ arched neck, and the glimpse of the ‘v’ of his hips before the cut out the picture, hiding his cock— oh god what would Francis do to see it, to have an entire picture of James right now. He wants to see how hard James is, what he looks like, he wants to see how James touches himself— is he gentle, is he patient? Or is he harsh, does he jerk himself off fast and rough? Does he take his time playing with himself, or is he efficient, quick in his motions?

Francis can’t take this any longer: he gets up, goes to his office’s door and locks it; goes back to his chair and pushes a hand in his jeans, sighing deeply at the touch. He wishes it to be James’ hand, his long fingers wrapped around his aching cock. He lets go of himself, getting back to his phone.

F: _christ_

F: _gorgeous_

F: _Beautiful_

F: _A masterpiece_

Everything flows out of him.

F: _want to put my mouth everywhere on you_

J: _fuck_

J: _can i touch myself please_

Was he waiting for Francis’ approval? The thought sends a hot shock of arousal straight to his cock.

F: _you can_

F: _lick your palm and take yourself in hand. Get off for me_

J: _yes_

F: _slowly. Take your time_

F: _I want you to enjoy it_

James’ texts back after a few seconds.

J: _francis_

J: _feels so good like this_

J: _u wanna hear me_

Francis has to bite his lip so hard he tastes blood. He touches himself again.

F: _yes_

F: _yes_

J: _earphones_

The next message takes longer to arrive, seconds that feel like an hour, but then it’s there, and it’s an audio clip, 16 seconds of it, and Francis knows, theoretically, what he’s going to hear, but knowing it and hearing it are two very different things in this matter. 

He puts his earphones on and presses plays. 

At first, there is only the distant noise of skin on skin in the background, but definitely _there_ . Then, after a couple of seconds, there are James’ ragged breaths, right in Francis’ ears and that’s already enough on its own, Francis can already feel the light shocks of his orgasm in his stomach, but then comes James’ voice, low and hoarse: " _Francis_ ," followed by a deep, broken moan. The way he whispers his name— a bead of precome gathers on the head of Francis’ prick. James moans again, sounding lost in his pleasure and Francis can hear a wet noise -is he licking his lips? Sucking his own fingers? Fucking his lubed fist?- and then, again, " _Francis_."

Francis comes in his hand at the second replay of it. His head is spinning, his vision whitened out for a good handful of seconds. He doesn't indulge too much in the afterglow though, because James is waiting for him and he deserves to know how good and wonderful he’s been. He cleans himself quickly, tucking himself back into his boxers and jeans.

F: _i just came listening to you_

J: _i want to see u like that_

J: _lick u clean_

(Francis’ spent dick has an enthusiastic little jump at that.)

J: _all of it i want it i wwant you_

F: _you're close arent you love?_

J: _yes_

F: _come all over your hand for me_

There’s no answer, so Francis keeps going on praising him.

F: _you’re so fucking hot, do you have any idea? I can’t stop staring at that pic, you look ready to get marked everywhere._

F: _get yourself all dirty with it, come all over your stomach, sweetheart._

F: _you’re been so good for me, such a good girl._

He waits for James’ answer -meaning, for James to finish, for James to come, oh, what a thought,- with such anticipation that he didn’t have even for his own orgasm.

J: _that was_

J: _a sec. Cant type_

It makes him chuckle fondly, and he ends up imagining how James is in his afterglow. Surely a wonder, there’s no doubt about that, but is he a cuddler? And if so, does he like best to cuddle his partner or getting cuddled? Does he get sleepy, Francis muses, smiling softly at the idea. 

J: _Fuck that was so good_

F: _It was. Your voice, James. Fuck._

J: _You have a thing for my voice_

F: _Apparently_.

F: _I would have called you to hear you properly, but I’m still in my office, tragically_

J: _Wait, you jerked off in your office? Please tell me no one heard my voice message_

F: _I would never let another soul hear it._

F: _It’s my most treasured possession now._

F: _I’m going to replay it again as soon as I get home. It’s just_

_F: Possibly the hottest thing I’ve ever heard_

F: _All of you is so incredibly hot_

J: 😍 💖 !!

F: _You still in bed?_

J: _Yes and this reminds me that I really should start getting ready or Dundy is going to kill me._

J: _But this was so worth it. The things you texted me…_

F: _You enjoyed them._

J: _Incredibly._

J: _You can call me like that again._

F: _I’ll make sure to do that, sweetheart._

J: 😍

J: _Ok I really have to go now_

F: _Will you let me know how your rescue mission goes? Not that I doubt its success. You’ll look incredible._

J: _Thank you, Francis. I’ll keep you posted so if something goes wrong you can come and save me 💖_

*

An hour or so later, when Francis is still replaying in his mind what happened, again and again, James sends him another picture.

J: _In case you wanted to see the finished look :)_

J: _PS: I also got the skirt. Thought you might wanted to know that._

The picture shows James’ reflection in the mirror of his hotel room and he looks simply majestic. He’s wearing a dark violet suit that looks very expensive and is most certainly tailored: his double-breasted jacket has a big golden brooch -that would look tacky on anyone else, but looks luxurious on him,- appointed on the lapel of the jacket to match its shiny golden buttons and— and his earrings. James is wearing golden circles, one on every lobe. They’re small, but not _so_ small, they still look like something a woman or a girl would wear, not a man cladded in a suit, and yet they look totally appropriate on James, glinting against his dark hair, styled in beautiful waves for the night. 

Violet double-breasted suit, golden brooch and circle earring, long hair framing his handsome, strong face, and that mischievous smile playing on his lips, an eyebrow raised as if in a challenge ( _tell me I don’t look breathtaking. I dare you_ ) have Francis gasp for air.

It would look like too much on most people: it looks perfect on James, like he’s not even making the effort of pulling it off, as if this is just how he dresses on a daily basis, because he’s an angel and a walking temptation and the most beautiful thing Francis has ever seen.

He’s so very jealous of every single person who’s going to see him looking like this tonight.

F: _I know I already said a lot of things today, but you look incredible. I’m not even sure you’re real_ . _You’re like a fantasy of mine. One I didn’t even know I had until I started talking to you._

J: _I'm very much real Francis, and I'm not as perfect as you seem to perceive me. But your comments make me feel like I'm worth a million bucks (also very horny) x_

*

He doesn't hear from James until much later that night, when Francis is half-asleep on the couch, with Neptune curled up on the floor next to his feet and Netflix in the background. He didn’t even expect to hear from James, because he’s out and about, it’s not like he _has_ to text Francis, so he was pretty much okay with talking to him the next morning.

But then Francis’ phone buzzes.

J: _Mission accomplished! The rescue was successful._

James has also sent him a picture, which— is not what Francis expected. He’s instantly awake. And a bit nauseous.

It shows James with another man, who sports a fashionable haircut with silvery, long hair and a few locks of it falling in front of his eyes, blissfully closed. He’s got his cheek pressed to James’ own, who’s smiling happily, showing his teeth and everything. He’s lost his suit jacket and his shirt has the first few buttons undone, his long neck and collarbone on display. The other man has his arms clasped around James’ shoulders, keeping them close to one another. Their smiles are so natural, and both of them look incredibly handsome and very much like a couple, to Francis’ horror. 

It’s so wrong he feels like throwing up. He locks his phone, shoving it under a pillow, then jumps to his feet, startling Neptune, who whines questioningly, probably confused by the sudden change of atmosphere. 

Francis starts walking back and forth, back and forth in the middle of his living room like the absolute idiot that he is, feeling so stupid he wishes he could punch himself in the face and shuts his mind and un-see that fucking picture.

James looked like a full course meal, so of course his friend, or agent, or whatever the fuck that asshole is for him, was plastered to his side. Everything it would take for one of them would be turning his face on the side and just like that, they would kiss. They’re probably snogging each other right fucking now, while Francis is here, alone, in his fucking apartment with the sole company of his dog, because that’s everything he deserves. He never deserved James, this pathetic fairytale he’s been telling himself was too beautiful and perfect to be real, he knew it and yet he got his own expectations high, he deluded himself with wonderful daydreams about James finding him handsome, James wanting him back. What a fucking idiot. And what a fucking asshole has James been, because what need did he have to send him that fucking picture? None. And yet he did it, playing with Francis like a predator would play with his prey before eating it.

He’s probably used to having everyone at his feet with just a snap of his long fingers. Well, fuck him.

Francis throws the pillows somewhere and grabs his phone.

F: _Good_.

James starts texting. Then stops. Then starts again.

J: _Everything alright?_

He’s so furious with him, with that silvery haired fucker, and most of all with himself.

_No,_ he types. Then deletes it.

F: _Yes. Enjoy your evening._

J: _I will. You don’t sound too alright. I know we’re texting so I might be wrong. But you can tell me if something happened, you know? I’ll get it._

J: _You can also tell me to shut my mouth if I talk too much._

_Then fucking do it,_ he types and promptly deletes it.

F: _I’ll put my phone down for tonight. Have fun with your mate._

J: _Alright_

J: _Well. Goodnight, Francis._

Francis drops his phone back on the couch, growling at it. Neptune whines again.

“Shh, it’s alright.” Francis bends down to pet him, and Neptune happily pushes his wet nose in his hand. 

Pets and animals are easy to deal with. They love you just as much as you love them, everything is perfectly balanced, there’s no risk of giving too much of yourself and not getting enough in return, like it always happens with people.

Francis feels terribly hopeless and disenchanted, as if he just discovered that the last two weeks of his life never existed. 

He’d kill to have a drink.

*

The morning after doesn’t go any better. 

Francis makes the mistake of checking his phone first thing, out of habit, and finds nothing. No new texts, no missed calls, no notifications. Then again, why should James text him when he’s surely still with that guy. Probably draped across his back, both of them still deeply asleep after— well. After whatever the hell they did last night. 

He feels the beginning of a headache pounding behind his eyes and the day hasn't even started yet.

It goes a little better after he has coffee, caffeine waking up his body, sharpening his mind. 

He reads his and James’ last messages again, carefully avoiding the damned picture, even if, goddamnit, James looked spectacular and Francis hates him a little for that.

Reading his own texts again, he doesn’t think he overreacted, but in hindsight, he could have forced himself to keep calm just a little bit longer to at least ask James what the hell was going on in that picture and in his hotel room. He really should have given him the chance to explain, and maybe if he did, he would still be texting James as nothing happened.

Instead, James is silent.

And keeps being silent for hours, until Francis can’t take it any longer.

F: _James_

He doesn’t exactly know what to say, just that he has to talk to him.

F: _Are you alright?_

The question is particularly meaningless, but he has no idea what James is thinking now, so he keeps it generic and open, giving him the chance to talk to Francis or even shout at him.

The problem is, James does not reply. After a few minutes Francis is already restless, but after an hour it’s pure madness.

F: _James, I’m sorry about last night. I know I haven’t been the most chivalrous person ever._

This time he gets a reply straight away.

J: _I don’t care about chivalry, Francis. I care about people treating me decently_.

He’s… not wrong, but Francis has no idea how to tell him that. And most importantly, he doesn’t want to talk about that silvery haired guy, because what if James confirms his suspicions? He would throw his phone out of the window.

F: _I just wasn’t in the right mood to text. That’s all._

J: _That’s all?_

James types and types and types and Francis’ throat closes up.

J: _You literally shut the phone in my face after we had phone sex which alright I know it’s not the same as having sex in real life, but it WAS real to me and I thought it was real for you too but I was probably wrong and you just do this with everyone. I’m just a fucking idiot._

Francis starts typing, but James doesn’t stop.

J: _And you’re an asshole for acting like that_.

Francis grinds his teeth. He feels so out of his depth, he really really wants this weird situation to end and go back to what they had just yesterday. 

F: _I just wanted to let you enjoy your night with your mate, agent or whatever he is to you. You seemed to be so happy with him. You dressed up and everything._

J: _Of course I did? I was supposed to look good in order to help him out of that situation? Also oh my god you really didn’t get it_

Francis stops and frowns, confused. Has he missed a text, or something?

F: _Get what?_

His phone is silent for a few, long minutes.

J: _Why do you think I sent you those pictures of me trying those clothes on? And that picture of me ready to go, last night?_

F: _Because you wanted my help on your outfit?_

J: _NO Francis, jesus_

J: _It was because I knew I looked good and I wanted YOU to see it._

J: _You, Francis. Not Dundy._

Oh. Really?

F: _Really?_

J: _Yes, really. Is this so hard to believe?_

F: _Kind of. I thought you were trying to impress your friend._

J: _???????????_

J: _Dundy??????????_

J: _Francis, he’s MY AGENT and you said it yourself: he’s my friend. Nothing else. Ok?_

It feels like a terrible weight has just been taken away from his chest. 

F: _Right. I probably should have asked_.

J: _Fucking yes you should have. And thank you for having thought of me as someone who flirts with two people at the same time. Very respectful. Great to know that's how you see me._

Fuck, he’s making an even bigger mess of this.

F: _James no, it wasn’t like that at all_

F: _I’m sorry, this is all my fault. I acted like a real idiot_.

J: _Yes you can say that_.

_I’m sorry_ he types again, but deletes it. A dry apology is not going to be enough, he has to make sure James understands, has to explain himself for real, this time, because it feels like an ultimatum. He takes a deep breath and starts typing.

F: _I’m sorry about my reaction, but you seem too perfect to even text me. I know I said this already, but that’s just how it is. And your friend, he looked handsome, young and everything, and then. there’s me. In that picture it looked like you two knew what you were doing. I never know what I’m doing, James. I don't know what I'm doing with you either. Not because I’m fucking around with you, but the exact opposite: because I like you too much._

He sends it before reading it. Regrets it.

F: _Christ this sounds so pathetic I’m sorry. Ignore it._

J: _Fuck if I'm going to ignore this_

J: _Francis, I know we don’t really know each other that much in the end. But do you think I haven't felt that way too?_

J: _Also what the hell me and Dundy don’t look good together he’s like my brother!!! Gonna wash my eyes with soap brb_

J: _(trying to make you laugh. Please laugh?)_

James is still joking with him, just like they’ve done so many times in the past few days. He still wants to talk to Francis, miraculously. The relief is so violent it makes Francis’ hands go numb. He lets go of a shaky breath and finally relaxes, noticing how all of his muscles are aching from the tension he’s been holding.

F: _You had me laughing at my own phone like an idiot. Happy? (thank you)_

F: _You’ve felt like this too? When?_

J: _Yes, surprise, surprise! I have._

_J: You sound too good to be real as well, Francis._

This can’t be true. He must be exaggerating to make him shut up. But James’ bubble speech is still on the screen.

J: _I love texting you. And I am well aware we never actually met and that there’s a chance we won’t stand each other face to face. I’m not delusional like that. But until then, what I know is that I love texting you. I love sending you my stupid selfies and getting your wonderful reactions back, because you’re a sweet and honest man and you make me feel so fucking beautiful and like I'm worthy a milion bucks, it’s unreal. I love listening to you and sharing stupid Facebook posts with you, and by God, I love when you send me YOUR pictures._

J: _So please Francis tell me what I have to do to convince you that I'm not lying and I really enjoy all of this, because my patience has a limit and if you decide to keep ignoring me, well. I'm sure you can make out the rest._

J: _And while we're on it, will you please tell me why you don't want to meet me, please? The truth, Francis, or nothing._

The truth.

F: _It's not that I don't want to meet you, it’s not that._

J: _Well, for someone who has refused my invitations countless times it sounds like you just want to keep fucking with me, but in the metaphorical sense, sadly._

J: _But I’m getting tired of that and we’re both adults, Francis. If there’s something you want, just fucking take it, because I don’t know what else I can do more than offering myself to you on a fucking silver plate._

James is right. Of course he’s right, he’s been right and patient and so understanding the entire time, first by accommodating Francis’ requests of waiting a bit more, then kindly ignoring all of his refusals to each and every single one of James’ proposal to meet for a coffee and then have dinner at his favourite Greek restaurant and then visiting the new exhibition at the British Museum with him (which, damn, Francis already had it noted down for weeks). James has been acting like an adult, while Francis has been acting like a spoiled and petulant child, pushing the source of his apprehensions (and happiness and contentment) away.

But damned be his abandonment syndrome and his fears: James doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. He’s wonderful and kind and talking to him feels like being suspended in the air, after a jump that never ends: breathtaking, incredible, euphoric and dangerous. 

If James will one day decide he doesn’t like Francis that’s out of his control; but that will be in the future, a future he will never experience if he doesn’t speak up right now. 

Francis blinks.

_James?_ He types, _I think it’s time we meet._ He sends it.

James is typing right away, then stops, but Francis is steady now, confident in his intention like he’s never been in the past days, and he does not tremble: he knows what he wants, knows what he’s going to do to get it.

J: _You don’t have to do that just because I got angry._

F: _It’s not like that. I really want to see you. Please trust me._

J: _Give me a reason._

_I can give you an entire list of them,_ he thinks.

F: _Graham is right, you’re a drama queen. Well, then. I want to meet you because I can’t stop thinking about you, haven't been able to stop thinking about you since the first night I found you on that fucking app. I’ve never told you this but you're the first man I swiped right on_ — _Even if now I know you're a man as well as a pretty girl. The reason why I was reluctant about meeting you in person until now is that I’m a fucking coward. I was (still am) afraid of losing what we have. Because I love it. And I hate the idea of losing it and going back to not having it. Not having you. I’m bloody scared you’ll run away the moment you see me because I’m nothing special, I’m afraid you’ll have one look at me only to be incredibly disappointed. And I don’t want that, but I don’t want to lose you before even trying, and that’s why I want to meet you. Okay? It’s the truth. Pathetic, but it’s the truth._

After a couple of seconds James texts him back.

J: _can i call u_

He doesn’t waste any time writing back, just calls James right away.

He picks up at the first ring: “Do you mean that?” His voice is full of urgency and excitement too, such a beautiful sound.

“Yes.” Francis says, because it’s the truth, “I do.”

“Then by God, Francis,” he sounds breathless, “yes. I’m gonna meet you.”

“Good. Fuck, that’s good.” He lets go of the biggest breath he’s ever held. “Sorry about the text. Please, delete it.”

“Never. I’m so glad you finally talked to me for real.” He sounds euphoric. It’s so good to hear him like this, knowing Francis is the reason for his excitement. “You always say you love how I bring you into my life, but has it ever occurred to you that I might want that from you, as well?”

“I…” Francis gapes at that. “Fuck. I’m sorry, James—”

“No apologies. It’s okay now that you explained yourself.” He says, voice still filled with happiness, “I’m glad you decided to do it.”

“Me too. Seriously, I want it.”

“It’s so good hearing you say it.” James actually laughs, a bright ringing sound that fills Francis’ ears and heart. “Alright,” James clears his voice but his smile remains obvious in it. “I guess I’ll try to go back to work now. I’m still here until tonight.”

“But you’re coming back to London tomorrow morning, right?”

He thinks he can hear James’ breath stop, but it could very well be his imagination. “Yes, tomorrow morning.”

It’s obvious that James is dying to add something else, something they both know what it is, Francis can feel it lingering between them, and yet James is not speaking the words, because he’s leaving Francis the option of escaping, even now, after he already said yes.

“James,” Francis says, staring at his kitchen table without seeing it, “would you like to see me when you come back? Even the day after—”

“ _Yes!”_

There’s one second of complete stillness and silence and then they both burst into gittery, excited laughter, like two kids confessing their feelings to their crush for the first time and getting a positive answer back.

“God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“No, it’s perfectly fine and, James?” _Tell him, make him understand how important this is_. “I’m sorry about how I treated you. You didn’t deserve it and it was entirely my fault.”

“It’s fine, I understand why you acted the way you did.” God, how can he be real? “Just…” Francis waits, holding his breath. James sounds strangely insecure when he speaks. “I hope you won’t change your mind now.”

“No.” He assures immediately. “I promise you. I won't do that.”

“Good. Alright.” He gives a short, breathless laugh. Francis could get drunk on it. “I have to go now, Francis. I’ll try to finish my work here as best as I can, but I probably won’t get anything done anyway, you made me way too happy to focus on anything else, I’m afraid.”

Francis’ smile is so big he can feel it pulling at every single part of his face. “I’m sorry about that, but also pleased to know.”

“You’re a devil sometimes.”

“Only with you.”

There’s a beat of silence on James’ part, and then, full of enphasis: “Fuck, I can’t wait to have you in front of me.”

“Me too, James.” His cheeks almost hurt from how much he’s smiling, “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ \- The Charleston Festival ](https://www.charleston.org.uk/festival/) is a real thing (but sadly I’ve never been there)
> 
> \- Francis’ Tinder bio: _Francis, 51. London, UK_ _Cat person who owns a dog. Don't make me regret downloading this._
> 
> \- this is an alternate universe in which the FE has happened but with other people, different names, etc. This is why XXI century James Fitzjames can write about it and Francis works for a company called _Terror_ . I just love to play with canon and AUs and mix them!
> 
> \- Francis’ Tinder pictures are [ this ](https://i.ibb.co/S6M5w04/francis-01.jpg) and [ this ](https://i.ibb.co/LkjFKkn/francis-02.png) .
> 
> \- James’ Tinder pictures are [ this ](https://i.ibb.co/prDbSjq/james-01.png) (mixed with how James moves and talks during the dinner scene in ep.1) and [ this ](https://i.ibb.co/zZfT368/james-05.png) and [ this ](https://i.ibb.co/M7V5hK7/james-02.png) . 
> 
> \- James’ violet suit is [ this ](https://pin.it/78uLwHw) . (Suggested by Bea, thank you bby, IT’S SO FITTING)
> 
> \- i’m using this first chapter for [ my Bingo card ](https://ibb.co/rQhxVdz) ’s voice “Francis Crozier”.
> 
> \- thanks you so much for reading <3 every single one of your kudos and comments make Francis send James another selfie ;) 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thank you so much for reading the first part, you have unlocked: _THE SMUTTY SMUT._  
>  Enjoy!

J: _I was thinking_

James texts him that same night. 

J: _You don’t have to say yes, but I have a presentation of my novel on Saturday, at a small independent bookshop in Kensington. It’s nothing fancy, probably going to be v chill and quick. At 5pm. Would you like to come?_

J: _I’ll take you to dinner after._

No one has ever taken Francis to anything, let alone dinner. He’s always been the one taking his partners somewhere, possibly because he’s always been exclusively with women and traditional values have stayed deeply rooted in him no matter how hard he has tried to shake them off, but he doesn’t think that's the only reason. No one has ever treated him like he’s somewhat precious. Sophia and his past lovers and partners have loved him, praised him, made him happy in their own way. But no one has ever treated him with this gentleness James always shows him without even making a big deal. It’s so bizarre to feel it and it makes him realize how good it is to be on the receiving end of these attentions.

F _: I would love that so much._

James sends him three heart-eyes emojis, the dancing lady, a combination of stars and his most used heart emoji (the pink sparkling one), and Francis doesn’t even try to hide his smile anymore. It would be pointless.

F: _Thank you for inviting me, James. I can’t wait to be there._

J: _I can’t wait to see you_.

*

Time stops and then flows at once, and before Francis knows it, Sunday comes.

He’s a bundle of nerves and excitement, so much that he walks Neptune four times before it’s even 4pm, because he can’t stay still and being home feels like being trapped in a too small space. Neptune is more than happy to leave the house again and again and Francis tells himself he’s doing it for him, since he’ll be out for hours that afternoon, but reality is he’s going to scream if he stays home any longer.

He can’t even make up his mind about what to wear and almost texts Sophia asking for help. Almost. It would be a bit too much having to explain James to her right now. They stayed in very friendly contacts after the break up, that’s true, but Francis hasn’t told anyone about James, initially because he thought it would have been just another bad experience, and later because he was feeling a bit self-conscious about how many expectations he had for this.

So he’s left alone to pass the time before 4pm, when he finally leaves the house, trying not to be as nervous as a 12 years old at his first date—

Is this even a date? Can he call it like that? Oh god, he’s going to have a date with James Fitzjames, the handsomest man in the entire bloody country. 

He needs to calm down or he’s going to go mad by the time he’ll actually see him.

James has texted him the Bridgens&Peglar Bookshop’ address earlier, along with a photo of its windows with his novel in full display. It shouldn’t take long for Francis to get there and he texts him while going to the bus stop.

F: _I should be there in half an hour. I’ll see you in a bit._

James texts back a thumbs up emoji and probably every single one of the hearts emojis. And a kiss.

Francis’ heart skips a beat.

  
  


Of course things don’t go as planned: he figured he would have had all the time to reach the bookshop, but then his bus skips the stop where he was supposed to get off and he has to walk back to the tube, cursing under his breath the entire time, praying he won’t be late or too sweaty by the time he’ll get there. He tries very hard not to think about anything and carefully avoids his own image in every reflecting surface, because he knows that he’s going to dislike what he sees and regret having chosen the khaki pants instead of the darker ones.

When he finally gets to the street of the bookshop, at 4:50pm, he almost misses it: he was expecting some kind of big, imposing library _à la_ Waterstones, but Bridgens&Peglar is actually a tiny, one-window bookshop, cramped in between two buildings, as if someone had squeeze it in that small space by sheer willpower. There are just a couple of people on the outside, but he can’t see James and for a moment his stomach drops, convinced that the man has sent him to a random bookshop on a random Sunday afternoon, just to have a good laugh.

Then Francis looks at the bookshop’s windows and there it is, his novel, _The Sea, The Sea, The Open Sea_ , a few copies carefully arranged to make sure no one can possibly miss it. 

Francis realizes he’s still smiling when he’s already entering the bookshop. 

Inside, the space is small, but cosy, almost homely, with soft lights and dark wooden bookshelves that make him feel instantly more at ease. There is a small crowd toward the back of the shop, where a few rows of mismatched wooden chairs and stools have been placed.

Francis is scanning the space to find James, when someone greets him.

“Good morning, sir, welcome.” A young man smiles at him, eyes bright, a stack of James' books in his hands. “Are you here for the book event?”

Francis nods. “Yes, I…”

He never gets to finish the sentence and later that night he will feel sorry for how he treated the guy (he will find out later to be Henry Peglar), giving him no answer and generally forgetting about his presence altogether. The fact is, Francis’ attention has been caught by something _-someone_ ,- else.

He spots him when James hasn't noticed him yet. He’s leaning on the table set in front of the chairs, where he’s going to present his novel, and it’s this realization that makes everything finally real for Francis: he’s here, James is here, he’s going to watch him talk about his work, he’s going to talk to him later and possibly -oh god, he hopes so,- touch him.

As he looks at him, his first thought is the usual one: " _oh my god, he's out of this world._ " 

His second thought is an intrusive one, again, as usual: " _he's never going to like me. I'm old, this is my first time with a man, I have no idea what I’m doing, I'm going to make a fool of myself and embarrass him._ " 

His third thought is a surprising one, both for its content and the immense force of it: " _I want this. This has to be mine. I'm going to do everything in my power to get it and keep it and relish it._ "

He's about to move, when James turns -his hair follows the movement so elegantly that Francis could watch him do just that for hours,- and notices him. 

It's exactly as they say, just like what they show in the movies: time stops; everything around James becomes blurred, out of focus, because it doesn’t matter anymore, while everything about James seems to glow from within, has a different kind of brightness to it. It's like watching him in HD, while the rest of the world is barely visible in a grainy black and white.

James is wearing the skinny jeans he showed Francis and a pale yellow shirt with fine black vertical lines. As he gets closer, Francis notices he's wearing a pair of silver pendant earrings, elegant in their design, a single vertical line of light against his dark hair. His shirt has the first few buttons left open (dear God, oh Jesus, _what the hell_ ) and he's wearing black ankle boots, sharp and sleek.

He has walked straight out of one of Francis' wildest dreams, there's no other explanation for this.

He’s still taking everything in by the time James reaches him, and oh god, he's tall, so tall, and _fucking hell, his legs_ are even better in real life, and he’s gorgeous and his shoulders fill in his shirt perfectly and his neck, _his neck!_

Francis is stunned into silence, has forgotten how words work, can’t talk, can't move.

"Francis?" James asks, almost shyly.

"Hi. James.” Francis can’t talk and then he starts talking all at once, because he has no control over his own body anymore. “I’m sorry I’m late, I planned to get here earlier, but the bus skipped the right stop and I had to walk the last bit to the tube and—”

“Oh no, I’m sorry about that.” His brows knit together in worry, as if it were his fault. “Did you have to go a long way?”

James is worrying about _Francis_ , when Francis has brought this up simply because he was trying to tell him that he’s sorry for being late to his event, because this is important to him, because _James_ is important to him.

“No, it was alright. It’s just that I wanted to be here sooner, not when you’re about to start. ” He makes a vague gesture to the seats, almost full by now, “have a bit of time to talk to you.”

He feels awkward saying it, but James opens up into a soft smile.

“It’s no problem at all, don’t worry about it. I’m already very happy to have you here.” He lowers his gaze then. “When you didn’t show up I thought you ditched me—”

“I would have never done that.”  
James looks at him, almost shyly, as if he were unsure of himself. “I was counting on that.”

Francis is about to wish him good luck for the presentation, but is interrupted before he can even start. 

“James, we’re starting in a minute—oh, hello! Nice to meet you.” This guy offers Francis a big smile and his hand, which he takes, trying to remember why he looks familiar.

“Right.” James nods easily. “Thanks, Dundy.”

Francis watches as _Dundy_ nods and walks away, feeling himself blushing furiously. “That’s…”

“Yeah.” James grins knowingly. Fuck, he’s so pretty. Francis can’t wait to tell him.

...Judging by the way James’s eyes widen and his lips part, he might have said it out loud already. Oh, Jesus.

“Thank you, Francis.” He breathes, then blinks, breaking the moment. "I really have to go, now. I kept you a seat in the front row— if you’d like to sit there?"

James kept a seat for him. In the front row. On his own event.

Francis could kiss him.

"Absolutely. Lead the way.”

He follows James to the front row, noticing the seat at the right, still empty. “That one?" 

And just like that James places a hand in the centre of Francis' back and gently leads him towards it. "This one, yes."

"Right.” It’s everything Francis manages to say, because James' touch has sent a thrill through his entire body and he feels like he’s about to melt. He can't remember the last time someone has touched him with this much care. "Thank you, and good luck— not that you need it, you'll do great, of course."

"Thank you." His smile is out of this world. Francis forgets to breathe. Again. "I hope you'll enjoy it."

"I know I will." He means it. “I’ll see you later.”

It looks like James is about to add something else, but then just nods. “Later.”

Francis is so grateful for the seat, because his legs are about to give out for how nervous he is. It’s a good kind of excitement though, he feel alight, as if James’ touch has switched his entire body on with some secret button he didn’t even know he had.

The presentation is lovely and truly entertaining, not just because it’s James. He’s in conversation with a middle-aged man, who introduces himself as John Bridgens, the owner of the bookshop, then offers a brief presentation of James’ works and his new novel and proceeds to ask him a few questions, and James… James is shining like a star, like the sun itself. He’s so lively and enthusiastic and clearly passionate about his work, giving in depth answers, touching all the right subjects, making interesting connections. 

In Francis’ experience, writers aren’t great at public speaking, but it looks like James is born for this: he’s confident, his deep voice resonating in the bookshop, and he uses his hands a lot while talking, making his words even clearer, bringing his audience into his own tale easily. It’s like he’s creating a painting with his speech, every word a brushstroke. 

It’s so good to watch that Francis is suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of gratitude towards him, for having asked him to come here today.

However, the best thing about this is definitely the way James keeps looking at him from time to time. He doesn’t stare, merely glances at him now and then, as if he couldn’t stop himself from looking at Francis, checking if he’s still there. It makes him feel like he’s the centre of the event, the centre of the entire bloody London. 

There’s only one time when James holds his gaze for more than a heartbeat: he’s been asked how his take on the story differs from the previous ones, so he starts, with no hesitation whatsoever: “well,” he looks straight at Francis and says: “in my retelling, the two Captains fall in love.”

Francis feels his ears turning warm and he smiles at James with no shame or fear, because there’s no space for those when he’s feeling this good.

The rest of the talk flows by wonderfully and when it ends Francis does his best to hide how eager he feels at the prospect of finally having James for himself.

People immediately surround James, still sitting behind the table, ready to sign copies. Nevertheless, he glances at Francis when he’s done with the first person, with a small but luminous smile that makes him feel like he’s got a million butterflies in his belly.

He wanders around the library while James signs books, greets and thanks everyone, taking advantage of the spare time to grab his own copy. Only when there are a couple of people left in line he joins it. 

(James bites his bottom lip when he notices him. Francis very much wants to kiss him.)

“Hi.” He says when he’s finally in front of James, handing him his copy. “Could I have this signed by the author, please?”

James is so enchanting when he smiles, it feels like being washed over by a cascade of golden light. 

“Absolutely.” He takes the book, opens it on the first page, but turns around before writing anything. “John? This is a gift, alright? No need to stop at Henry.”

John Bridgens nods easily before Francis can process the words. “Sure, I’ll tell him.”

“No, James, I didn’t expect you—”

“It’s alright, Francis.” James raises a hand in front of him and shakes his head gently but firmly. “I want this to be a gift, okay? Plus, you already have it in digital form, so it would make no sense to pay for it again.”

(None of them mention that the digital copy has been a gift as well.)

“Alright.” Francis concedes, feeling weirdly...flattered. It’s a small kindness, the book doesn’t cost that much, obviously, but the fact that James is still gifting it to him makes it priceless. “Thank you.”

“Of course, I want you to have it.” And with that, he signs Francis’ copy with his fountain pen, writing something he can’t see because he’s too entrapped in watching his elegant fingers holding the book and the pen. James finishes with a flourish, then hands it back to him carefully. “You’ll want to keep it open for a few seconds, make sure the ink dries nicely.”

“Right. In true Victorian spirit.”

James actually chuckles at that. “I’m a bit obsessed with aesthetically pleasing things, I’m afraid. Combine that with my passion for history and you have an endless list of trinkets and weird stuff I own.”

Francis does not reply, because his gaze has fallen on the book he’s holding. The book where James has written, in a swift, elegant cursive:

_My dear Francis,_

_Thank you for every single one of your words._

_I’m so glad you’re here._

_x_

_James_

Francis was expecting just his signature, a ‘thank you’ or a generic— _something_. He wasn’t expecting to receive a couple of lines that feel like another gift. 

He tightens his grip on the book and closes it almost reverently, making sure the ink is completely dry.

When he looks up again, James is standing, putting on a long, dark green trench coat, followed by a leather shoulder bag. He gives Francis a smile, “shall we?” 

“Yes.” He says. “Let’s go.”

He asks the bookseller -Henry,- for a paper bag to put James’ novel in, while James says his goodbyes to Dundy (Francis avoids looking at him very carefully) and John Bridgens.

And then they’re outside, just he and James.

It feels surreal, but perfectly normal as well.

"So," James turns his entire attention to him, his pretty mouth turned up in a lovely little smile, his cheeks a bit flushed, probably from all the talking he just did. “How was it? I hope I haven’t bored you too much, since you’ve already read it.”

“Not at all, it was great.” He tries to put his sincere enthusiasm in his words. “And you had the entire room wrapped around your finger and your words. I’ve loved it, James. I’m glad you asked me to come.”

“I’m glad you did. Truly.” He steps a little closer. “Can I still take you to dinner, Francis?”

“I’d love that.”

“Brilliant.” James’ gaze falls on Francis’ lips, but it’s less than a second and then he gently places a hand on Francis’ arm, just above his elbow. “Do you feel like walking there? It’s not far and I feel like I still need to burn the nervousness off.”

“Sure, walking’s fine.” He nods, distracted by his touch. “You were nervous?” 

“Still am.” James throws him a side glance, nipping at the inside of his cheek, “but in a good way. It’s that kind of nervous energy that makes you feel like you could run to the other side of London without feeling one bit tired.”

“God, I thought it was just me.” He gives a short laugh, feeling lighter. “It’s a relief to know I’m not the only one.”

“We sound like two kids on their first date.” James jokes. The easy mention of a ‘date’ has Francis’ heart doing a funny jump.

“I mean,” he feels his face heat up, “it kind of is my first- _something_ . First time I have a-” _date_ , “first time I have something like this with a man.”

James turns to look at him while he keeps walking. He worries his bottom lip in between his teeth, his eyes darker than before. “I’ll do my best to make the experience worth it. Show you the wonders of same sex relationships.” He smiles knowingly.

“Think you can corrupt me into sin?” 

James flashes him a confident smile. “I _know_ I can.”

God, he's so beautiful, handsome and pretty with his long hair and his shining smile and his blush ( _his blush!)_ gently sprayed all over his cheeks. Francis is going to die, right here. Except that he can’t die, not without having kissed James before. He _has_ to find out what James tastes like, because James has come into his life and turned his priorities and his world upside down, apparently.

He doesn’t even register where they’re going, just trusts James and follows him, focusing entirely on his presence at his side, his warmth, his voice.

James is talking about the Greek restaurant he’s taking him to, when he suddenly stops mid-sentence, looks at him, and blurts out: "you look so good, Francis.” 

He almost trips on his own feet. 

James goes on, moving his hands around a lot, just like he did during his talk. "I meant to tell you earlier, but we were interrupted and I knew you looked good already, but this” he looks at Francis from head to toe, his gaze intense, "is different. In a good way. Really, I love the jacket,” oh god, he’s babbling, he’s adorable, “and your face, but you know that already." He lets go of a shaky laugh. "Sorry, I'll shut up now."

"God no, don't." He means it. "Your voice is even better with no phone in between." This makes James smile widely, so Francis goes on. "I'd be happy to listen to anything at all that you have to say. And you look amazing too, of course. I think I forgot to mention, but I can’t stop looking at you. Very amazing."

“Very amazing.” James repeats. “I like that.”

“You’re a lot of other things too, but I’m afraid this isn’t the most appropriate place to tell you the rest of it."

James stops his walking. Francis does the same.

James leans towards him and Francis is suddenly invested by his perfume, a male fragrance, something luxurious and sensual, but sophisticated, that suits him perfectly. James lowers his voice and says: "I'd love to know them. Please?” 

Francis swallows. 

"I'm thinking about” _tell him, he has to know_ , “about how handsome you are. And I’ve been thinking about how much I want to touch your hair. And that I love how these jeans look on you, but I’d like them better on the floor. Possibly, of my bedroom.”

James licks his lips, unconsciously, gaze fixed on Francis. "I see." His voice is a bit rough. "I'm tempted to just skip dinner—”

" _God_ , me too."

He can hear James’ breath stop. "Really?"

“Really.” Francis says. “I want to have a proper dinner with you, but I’d love to skip it more, I’m afraid.”

"Yeah." James agrees. "Been thinking about that all day and all the way here." He's leaning towards Francis, possibly without even realizing it.

Francis swallows hard. “But I also want to be a gentleman with you.”

“Please don’t.” James stares at his lips. “I don't feel like a gentleman in the slightest, right now.”

"That's because you're a gentle _lady_."

James’ gaze shoots up to his eyes, surprise clear on his face and Francis thinks: _that's it. I've fucked it up_.

Except that he then feels James’ lips crushing on his own and James' low groan in his mouth and James' long fingers on the side of his face.

The kiss turns to fire immediately: Francis is still registering what’s happening when James pushes his tongue -fuck, oh my _God_ ,- in his mouth and it makes him want to scream for how fucking good it is. Instead, he pushes a hand in his long, wonderful hair, fucking _finally_ , exactly as he's been wanting to do for the past weeks, and it’s just as soft as he imagined. 

James’ mouth is so warm, his breath shaky and terribly good to feel against his lips and cheek in short puffs. Francis kisses him again, probably pulling at his hair a bit too much in the heath of the moment, making him groan.

“Francis—” He starts, but there’s no way Francis can stop kissing that wonderful mouth of his now that he knows how good it feels, so he pushes his nose against James’ cheek and his lips on James' again, only that this time they’re already wet with spit and parted and curled into a smile and so fucking delicious. James throws his arms around Francis’ shoulders and is so good to be enveloped in this embrace, his body giving off warmth in waves.

It’s _different_ from what he already knows: James is all sharp angles and long, straight lines, his body steady and strong. Francis gets both hands on the side of his neck, feeling the little hill of his Adam’s apple under his thumb. He pushes lightly at it, out of instinct, and James’ jaw goes slack, his lips part. Francis slides his hands up to the sides of his face, feeling his strong jaw under his palms and brushes his thumbs in James’ sideburns, curious to find out how everything differs from what he’s used to. He loves what he’s discovering, loves it so much he can’t st—

“ _Stop_.” 

It’s like a cold shower. Francis pushes himself away from him.

“Fuck.” Francis pants. “I’m sorry.”

But James only grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and kisses him again— _why_. He kisses Francis with his lips closed, just pushing his mouth on his once again, as he couldn’t prevent himself from doing that. Francis groans.

“You have to stop it.” James pants, his forehead pressed against Francis’, his eyes closed, “or I’m going to do something very embarrassing like getting a really bad boner in the middle of the street.”

“Fuck.” Francis squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm down, then looks at James in the eye. “That would be fun, though.”

James is breathing hard, his hands still clasped on Francis’ lapels. “Take me home with you?” 

As if there were a chance he could say no.

“Yes.” Francis says. “Yes.”

*

It really feels like being a teenager again.

Francis is 51, for God’s sake, he shouldn’t have issues hiding his hard-on on the way home. Then again, Francis has never had someone like James next to him in 51 years, so he’s excused.

He does his best to avoid embarrassing himself and almost fails multiple times, especially when they’re in the taxi and James keeps squirming in his seat, so Francis throws him a glance and James leans in his space, places his lips against his ear and whispers: “thank God I decided for a long trench coat.” 

He has to close his eyes a moment. “Fuck, James.” 

“Yeah,” he whispers, breath hot on Francis’ neck, “that’s the plan.”

After that, Francis just tries to hide the situation in his pants as best he can, silently thanking the heavens that they’re in a taxi instead of a crowded bus or the tube. 

James, for his part, doesn’t look like is doing any better: sure he’s got his long coat (hiding what Francis is _dying_ to see), but he keeps shifting and moving, crossing and uncrossing his legs, licking his lips again and again.

He has to look away or they’ll end up giving the driver a show.

When they finally reach Francis’ road, he pays in a heartbeat, tipping nicely because why the hell no. James waits for him on the sidewalk right in front of his house, both hands buried in his trench coat’s pockets.

“I apologize in advance for Neptune.” Francis says when he reaches him. “He’s not a pup anymore, but he’s still overly enthusiastic.”

“No need, Francis, I’m very fond of dogs.” He says, easily. “I’m actually quite excited to finally meet the god of the seas itself.”

This catches him off guard, making him laugh. “Don’t give him ideas.”

When he opens the front door they are indeed invested by Neptune, wiggling his tail at maximum speed, excited by having Francis _and_ someone else home.

“Yes, yes, I’ve missed you too.” Francis pets him on the head, closing the door behind them. "Be good and don't jump on James, show some manners, now."

Neptune licks at his hand happily, then moves on to James, who’s holding out both hands to let Neptune get used to him, giving him time.

“Hi, Neptune. Nice to meet you.”

After a moment the dog seems satisfied with him, so he renews his excited little jumps and licks, looking up at James with wide eyes.

And then James lets his shoulder bag fall on the floor and squats down in Francis’ hallway, petting Neptune on his head, scratching behind his ears, laughing gingerly when the dog almost trips both of them over in his excitement. “You’re such a big boy!” He cries, laughing freely.

Francis realizes he’s staring at the scene open-mouthed, like a proper fool. 

He closes his mouth. Puts the bag with James’ book down.

He has forgotten what it was like to have someone else in his house, someone who’s not Thomas or Esther. It’s a good feeling. It makes him feel warm.

James stands up when Neptune calms down a little, still laughing, his eyes bright, the lines across his cheeks deep. He straightens his clothes, pushes his hair away from his face.

Francis feels— something happening somewhere in his chest.

“Good God, Francis, what do you feed him? Sugar and RedBull?” James exclaims, but he goes quiet as soon as he notices Francis staring.

Francis thinks: _am I allowed to finally touch you?_ and _come with me, I want to see how good you look splayed on my bed_ and _I want to find out what you like. I want you to find out what I like_.

Instead he says: “can I get you anything? Coffee?”

He mentally curses himself.

James looks crestfallen for a second, then nods. “Sure. Coffee. Thanks.”

Francis goes into the kitchen, moving on auto-pilot. He washes his hands. Moves to the cupboard, gets the coffee. Grabs the moka. Hears James washing his own hands behind him. Gets his best mugs out. He’s about to fill the moka when he turns to look where James is and— _bloody fuck_ , he’s. Right here, standing so close to him, chin raised high, gaze almost a challenge, towering over him. His voice is a low rumble when he says: “forget the coffee, it’s you that I want” before kissing him.

Francis has half the mind to hastily put the moka down somewhere on the counter and then _yes, yes,_ he’s being pushed against that same counter by James’ body pinning him there. 

He makes some undignified sound that gets swallowed by James' mouth and immediately pushes a hand in his hair, can’t seem to have enough of that, it's just so soft, feels like silk under his fingers. His other hand goes to James’ side, slim, narrow, fucking hell, he can’t wait to see him naked.

James half-embraces him with an arm around his back, the other hand roaming everywhere on him, over his side, his arm, his thigh and then he’s groping Francis over his pants, making him groan into the kiss. 

“Fuck.” James hides his face against his neck, letting go of a shuddering breath, his hand squeezing Francis' cock so nicely. “You feel good. Big.”

“Jesus, James.” Francis gets completely hard under James’ big hand working on him, “you can’t say shit like that.”

“I haven’t even started with what I want to say to you.” He nips at his neck. Francis' hips buck up into his hand. “If this works on you already, what are you going to do when I'll tell you how much I want _this_ ” he moves his thumb along the underside of Francis’ cock, “in me?”

Oh hell, Francis wants it, he wants it so much even if he has no idea how that’s going to feel.

“You want that?"

“Francis, I’ve been dreaming about it for days.” He licks a tiny portion of skin under Francis' ear. “Been fingering myself thinking it was your cock- _oh!_ ”

Francis rolls them over, pushing James against the counter. He stares into his eyes. "What else have you done thinking about me?”

James grins, looking delighted by the question. He places his lips against Francis' ear, rolling his hips just a touch against him and says: “sucked on my favourite dildo while jerking off.”

He has to close his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about that too. Sucking you off, I mean.”

“You’re full of surprises.” James breathes against his cheek. “Did you sucked on something while thinking about it?”

Francis feels his face burn from embarrassment. “My— fingers.”

James moves back and stares at him, a wild light in his eyes. “I would have loved to see you like that, you must have looked so hot.”

Francis shrugs, having no idea how to reply.

“Let me try that,” he says instead, “I’ve never done it, but— I want it. Really bad, I think.” He places a hand on James’ groin, feeling the shape of him, how hard he is. All of his blood rushes down in between his legs, his mouth waters at the idea of having _that_ on his tongue. 

What is it like, feeling someone that way? Francis loves giving head, is a big fan of taking his female partners apart with his mouth, feeling them clench and tremble right under his tongue, or around it. Is it the same with a man, or with a cock in his mouth? He’s always been on the receiving end of a blowjob and that is, of course, incredibly good. Could it be equally good, giving it to someone else? From how his body is reacting to the mere _thought_ of sucking James off, he thinks that yes, it could be just as nice. It’s like his body already knows that he’s going to love it and he only has to find out for himself.

James kisses him hard, bucking into Francis' hand, leaving them both panting. "Where's your bedroom," James rumbles against his neck, kissing and licking, making it hard for Francis to remember how to talk, especially when James sucks a portion of skin while moving his hand on Francis’ cock, over his pants.

"It's…" James does that again, "Jesus— it's here, come with me."

Francis leads him to the bedroom, James’s hands never leaving him: he keeps touching Francis’ back, his ass, his waist, hooks his index finger in his belt loop playfully. 

Francis closes the door of the bedroom behind them. James shoots him a questioning look, then proceeds to push him against the door. As one does. 

Francis wraps his arms around him, kissing his cheek, then moving down on his long neck. "Neptune," he says in explanation, "don't want to get interrupted."

“So smart." James murmurs before kissing him slowly this time and it’s possibly even hotter than before. Francis is _dying_ for how James fights to take control of their kisses, almost challenging him to do better every time.

"James," he says on his lips. His hands are shaking a little, "let me try?"

"Try what?"

"Having-" his ears burn, "you in my mouth."

His eyes get impossibly dark, "sure, if you want it. First time?"

"First time." 

"I'll guide you.” He says at once, cupping Francis’ face with a hand, “and you're going to stop if it's not your thing, yes?"

God, he’s sweet. Francis wants to eat him up and kiss him senseless and give him everything he wants.

But he also wants to suck him off and that's the most pressing matter at the moment.

"Yes, yes, just get on the bed." He all but pushes James towards it, making him chuckle low in his throat.

"Alright, daddy."

“Get. Naked." He almost growls it.

James licks at his lips, starts undressing while staring at him. 

His shirt comes off first thing, revealing how gorgeous he is, pale and unmarked, with that inviting trail of hair starting just under his belly button, going down. James starts unbuttoning his jeans, but Francis lightly pushes a hand in the centre of his chest, inviting him to lay down. 

James removes his hand from his zip.

"Good boy.” Says Francis and James lets go of a shaky breath. He pushes himself up on the centre of Francis’ bed, and yes: he does look good there. 

"You're beautiful." Francis hears himself say. 

James actually _blushes_ at that. “Come here?”

And Francis goes, of course he goes. He’s not exactly sure how to move, what to do now, so he tries with what feels more natural: placing himself in between James’ legs, for instance, then kissing him once again, for good measure. James’ lips part for him immediately, still wet from their previous kisses. Francis has the sudden urge to feel him close, so he grinds his hips down on him. James _whines_ , surprised, and the sound almost makes Francis come in his pants, it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever heard. 

"Do you remember that audio clip you sent me?” 

“Oh, yes.” James licks at his lips, “you liked it.”

Francis nods, “tell me what I have to do to hear you moan like that again.”

James’ pupils are blown out. “Take these fucking jeans off me.”

“Ah, just that?” He grins, feeling weirdly light and confident while he strips him of the offended jeans. James is wearing black boxers that cling to his narrow hips, highlighting the hard line of his cock, straining the fabric. There’s a small patch of wetness that makes Francis' throat go dry.

“And,” James pushes the boxers down without ceremony, “give me your first blowjob.”

Fuck yes he will.

He pushes his face in James’ chest, kissing everywhere he can reach, savoring how warm and solid he is. He closes his lips over a nipple, curious to see the reaction. Francis himself is not particularly sensitive there, but he likes it sometimes. He has no idea if other men like it, but James’ breath catches and he gives a little kick, making him laugh. 

“Sensitive?”

“Yeah, go on, I love it,” he nods fiercely.

Francis licks at his perked nipple with the tip of his tongue and James stops breathing; he does it again, this time keeping his tongue flat. James arches off the bed, pushing both hands in his hair.

Francis finds it fascinating, had no idea James would like it this much, so he keeps playing with that same nipple, sucking on it and grazing his teeth around it (“Fra-ncis”) and since James seems to love what he’s doing, he rubs his thumb on the other nipple.

James is panting and letting go of small sounds now and then, laying boneless in Francis' arms, his cock a hard line burning against Francis' stomach. 

“Francis, please,” he breathes, “enough— or you’re going to kill me.”

“Sorry,” he gives a last lick, “got carried away. You react beautifully.”

James throws an arm over his eyes, groaning. He lifts his hips a little. Is he even aware of doing that? Francis stares at him, at his cock elegantly curved against his stomach, feeling the need to close his lips around it. He has never even _touched_ another man like this before, he realizes. So he takes James' cock in hand, giving it a tentative pump.

James’ eyes shoot open.

It’s hot. Pulsing hot and so hard and very similar to have himself in hand but completely different at the same time. Francis stares at his own hand wrapped around James, almost transfixed. He has already leaked a bit of precome, gleasting over the head. 

Francis licks his lips. Swallows his own saliva.

He lets go of James just to take his own shirt off, or he’ll catch fire. He unbuttons his pants too, with James staring at him with wide, hungry eyes.

And then he lowers himself over James, at eye level with his cock, his long legs spread open.

James places a hand on his shoulder. “Alright, start slow. Don’t hurt yourself.” 

Francis knows that he should look at his face when he's speaking, but his cock is just so inviting here, in front of him, asking for his attention. He starts by placing a kiss on James’ hip. The hand on his shoulder tightens a bit. 

He moves lower, kissing right next to the base of James' cock, pushing his nose in his hair. James lets go of a deep breath, the muscles in his thighs trembling a little. Francis kisses the underside of his cock and James’ entire body has a little spasm. God, his smell here is so strong, it’s like drinking directly from the source of it.

He gives James’ cock a long lick on the underside, and James moans, high and needy. Francis’ own erection is nearly painful in his boxers and his face feels hot and it’s blotchy red for sure, but he doesn’t care, only cares for James. He licks at him again and again, getting him wet for when he’s going to take it, and it’s good, it’s fucking good and he loves all the sounds and moans he’s tearing out of James. 

“You can go on now—please go on.” James pants.

Right, he should do that too. He wraps his hand around the base of James’ cock and finally closes his lips on the head, careful to his every movement. James almost shouts, writhing on the bed, “ _fuck_ —”

It’s strange. It immediately feels like too much, the stretch of his lips around it unusual; but it also feels like not nearly enough, because _god_ , it’s amazing. Francis tries to get a bit more into his mouth, breathing through his nose carefully. He keeps his free hand on James’ hip to anchor both him and himself. He tries to suck on it and James’ groans loudly. His legs fall a bit more open around him.

“That’s—” James pants, “it’s already very good, don’t push yourself further.”

James is worrying about him, and that’s sweet, but he wants to do this, so fucking much. He pushes himself up a bit, then bobs his head down again, slowly. James moans, deep, and moves his hand from Francis’ shoulder to the back of his head, just resting it there, not pushing or pulling at him.

Francis repeats the movement, again and again, and he’s not getting that much of James in his mouth anyway, but it's fucking good and James seems to love it as well, so maybe he's not that terrible at this. He distantly notices that he’s sweating and his cock aches with how hard he is, but he’s not confident in his movements enough to touch himself, both his hands occupied on James, who’s moaning almost non-stop, low and breathy.

“Francis—” The hand in his hair spasms a little when he focuses on the head, trying to remember what he likes best when someone sucks him off.

“You... _ah_.” James moans, “god, stop or I'm gonna come.”

Francis lets go of his prick, feeling his mouth swollen and aching in a weird, unusual way, “Isn’t that the point?” Ugh, his voice is raspy.

James pushes himself up on his elbows and looks at him. His pretty face is all blushed, his cheeks bright pink, his eyes big and liquidy. He's to die for.

“But I want to come while you fuck me.” He almost pouts.

Francis climbs over him, kissing him almost violently. James makes a delicious sound of surprise in his mouth and eagerly welcomes him in a warm embrace, wrapping both arms and legs around him. "Fuck, I want to see you naked," he murmurs on his lips.

“Yeah, these pants are killing me.” He grumbles, making James chuckle. He looks a little dazed, his hair a bit wild on the pillow. _Francis’_ pillow.

They get his pants off, at last, and it’s such a relief that Francis even forgets about feeling self-conscious about his body. This is also possibly also because James is looking at him like he wants to both eat him and be eaten by him. Francis tugs at his own cock, groaning in relief, and James stares at his movements almost without blinking, licking his lips. 

“Francis,” he says, “can I suck you off? Please. Please.”

“Yes, just—” his ears burn, “not too much. I’m kinda close.”

“You enjoyed that?” James moves to straddle him ( _oh Jesus_ ), “having a cock in your mouth?”

“I enjoyed having _your_ cock in my mouth.”

James bites at his bottom lip, quiet for a moment. Then, he lowers down to kiss Francis’ chest.

“I’m so glad that stupid app matched us.” He mumbles on Francis’ skin, moving down with a long line of wet kisses. “You’re worth every shitty date I had to endure.”

He’s so stunned by the revelation that James had some bad experiences with other people that he doesn’t even have the mind to reply before James nuzzles his face in Francis’ groin, properly deleting every single one of his coherent thoughts.

James noses the side of his cock while he wraps his long fingers around Francis and takes him in his mouth without much hesitation and a pleased sound. Francis clasps his hands in the bedsheets, trying to stay still even if he’s dying to push himself into James’ mouth: it’s amazing, warm and welcoming, and the things he's doing with his tongue are divine. Francis doesn't even realize that he's filling the room with his panting and groaning. 

"James—oh god." He clings to the bedsheets harder and pushes himself up to look at him and James is looking right back at him, lips stretched around Francis’ cock, shining with spit, his eyes not completely focused, his hair falling in front of his face with his every movement. Francis pushes a lock of it behind his ear and James groans, sending a spark or pleasure directly to his cock. Then, he places his own hand over Francis' and moves it on the back of his head. When he takes his hand away, Francis threads his fingers in his long hair and James hums, pleased.

"You're so good." Francis breathes, grazing his fingers on his scalp. "Such a good boy, aren't you?"

James pinches his eyes shut, an expression of deep, painful pleasure. Francis notices the movements of his shoulder and realizes what he’s doing.

"You're" he swallows, "touching yourself."

James bobs his head up and down a couple of times before _smiling_ around the head of his cock and nodding like that. 

It’s a miracle Francis survives witnessing it.

“Wonderful.” He says without having to think about it.

James shudders, leaving his cock with a wet sound. He keeps moving his hand on himself, “you ready to fuck me?”

“Yes.” He says, because he is, and he is not, at the same time. He has no idea how to do it, but he wants it. So much. “Yes. Tell me what to do.”

James crawls back up over him, “would you like to help me getting ready?”

“Yeah.” He says, “please.”

James grins and kisses him on the cheek, a sweet unexpected touch. “I was hoping so. Do you have any lube?”

Francis nods bluntly, reaching for the bedside table, getting both the lube and the entire package of condoms. James laughs, eye crinkling with amusement, “ _all_ of them?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

James gives him a quick peck on the lips, then gets a condom and wears it. He gets another one and puts it on Francis, making him hiss at the touch. He’s so worked up, he’s almost hoping his erection will flag a bit while getting James ready or he’s not going to last one minute inside of him—Jesus, _inside of him_. 

“Alright, let’s do it like this.” James says, taking the pillow Francis isn’t resting on. He lays down on his front, placing it under his hips with a low sound of satisfaction. He hands Francis the lube. “Lube your fingers and then me.”

“Right.” He says bluntly, staring at the sinuous line of James’ back gently arched by the pillow. He’s resting his chin over his folded arms, his hair a dark curtain leaving only one single eye out.

Francis pushes himself up and moves next to him, one knee in between James’ legs. He squeezes a generous amount of lube on his hand and warms it up on his fingers.

“Start slow, without pushing in, just touch me.” James instructs him, looking over his shoulder. His voice is low, a wonderful caress.

“Alright.” Francis looks at him, at his backside, and something inside of him gets tight, his mouth goes dry. 

He starts by gently touching the cleft of James’ ass, applying just a hint of pressure over the tiny rim of muscles. “Slow.”

“Yes.” James murmurs, “like that, for a few times. As if you were touching someones’ clit, almost.”

“Fuck, James.” That image, paired with what’s actually under his fingers is almost too much.

James’ laugh is a bit muffled by the covers. “Your bisexuality is showing, Francis.”

This is not the time to have a sexual orientation revelation, but damn, James could be right. He files that thought away for later, focusing on this, on James’ offering himself freely to him.

“Now, push one finger in, carefully but not too slowly, I can take it.” James says.

“Right.” He whispers again, mostly to himself. He licks his lips and pushes his index finger and, oh, just like that it slips into James’ body to the first knuckle. “Fuck.”

“Indeed.” James shifts his hips on the pillow. “Same thing, push a little more—yeah, yes that’s it.”

“James.” He says, but has no idea what to add. He feels alight. Burning hot. He pushes his finger deep in his body and James lets go of a breath.

“Keep moving, it’s okay.” He sounds breathy, “please.”

So Francis does it, he pushes his finger a bit more, then withdraws it and does it again, and James’ wonderful body is tight, so tight, but it’s opening up for him, adjusting around his finger. 

“Francis, more.” He pushed his hips back, “add another finger.”

So he pulls his hand back a little and does as told and there’s a bit more of resistance at first, but James doesn’t tell him to stop, he just meowls into the pillow and says “yes” so Francis pushes a bit more and suddenly he’s two fingers in.

James grasps at the covers.

“You’re tight.” Francis marvels, “is it good?”

“Yes fuck, keep moving them and curl them as if yo— _ahh_.” 

Francis feels him clench around him. It’s incredibly hot.

“That’s it, do that again,” James pushes himself back on his fingers, so Francis pins him down with his free hand, making him moan. “Francis, please.”

“Don’t move, I’m gonna give it to you.” He repeats the same movement, curling his fingers, looking for the right place and at the third attempt James moans again, grinding down on the pillow, “more.”

He gives it to him, keeps repeating the same movement, going for the same angle, fucking into him and James relaxes wonderfully around him, clenching harder and harder, but softening more and more.

“Beautiful.” Francis whispers, enchanted by James’ writhing, the sounds he’s making, his body. He lowers himself down on him, kisses his shoulder, keep fucking his fingers into him. “You’re amazing.”

James turns to look at him, a wicked smile on his lips even if he’s all blushed and his hair is falling over his eyes. “Thought you said ‘very amazing’.”

“You are. Bloody hell, James, tell me you’re ready. I can’t resist much longer.”

He actually gives a breathy laugh at Francis’ desperation. He crooks his fingers in his ass in revenge and James is shaken by a spams. 

“Yes, yes, enough.”

Francis leaves a bite on his shoulder and carefully pulls his hand away. James’ hips follow his movement, chasing the touch.

“Fuck, I want you.” James says, turning on his side, looking at his cock with hunger plainly written on his face. “How do you want me?”

Francis’ mind is currently full of James’ smell, James’ voice, the feeling of James’ skin under his fingers, so he can barely form a coherent thought. “I think— I want to look at you when you come.”

As in answer, James gets a hand in his hair and his tongue in Francis’ mouth. He has to push him back down on the bed, “ _James_.” He closes his eyes, “if you don’t stop touching me I’m gonna come right now.”

“Mmh, that’s a nice thought.” 

He thankfully stops touching Francis and lays down on his back.

Francis gets a condom so he has to look at something that’s not James’ handsome face, James’ bed hair, James’ wonderful cock, hard as a rock, blood-red, resting on his hip, waiting for his attention.

When he looks up at him again, he’s got his legs spread open, not one bit shy. Francis wants to take him apart, see him cry, overstimulated, hear him beg to let him come, _please Francis, let me come_.

He settles himself in between his long legs, and James bends them at the knees.

“Start slow, again.” He says, gaze locked with his. “Slow until I tell you. Then do your worst.”

“You have no business looking this pleased.” Francis bites down under his ear, making him yelp in surprise.

“Go on, Francis.” He whispers. “Fuck me.”

He pushes into James expecting to find it hard, but after the initial resistance in accepting the intrusion Francis slides easily into him and has to actually restrain himself not to go all the way at once.

James moans loudly and clings to his arms, his shoulders, “ _yes_ —now give me— a moment.”

“Fuck _._ ” Francis squeezes his eyes shut. “You’re fucking tight— god, James.”

The pressure is almost too much, it’s like James is squeezing the hard bundle of arousal he’s got in his stomach with both hands.

He feels James’ hands on the sides of his face. He opens his eyes again.

“Francis,” James whispers, his breath heavy, “a bit more. Still slow.”

He nods, without the right words to express his admiration at how James is taking him into himself, slowly yes, but so easily, it feels like the most natural thing in the word.

He pushes into him carefully, in a slow but steady move. James’ eyes flutter shut, his lips part. He’s frowning a little, lost somewhere between pleasure and pain.

“James.” He calls him back, “alright?”

“God yes, you…” he swallows hard, blinks, “you feel good.”

“You feel incredible.” Francis kisses him and the movement gets him deeper into him. 

James makes a sinful noise into his mouth and whispers: “move. As if you were fucking a woman.”

“Am I not?” He murmurs, holding his gaze, “fucking a woman?”

James’ eyes glint and then he all but devours his mouth with hungry kisses, as if he were a starving man and Francis were a feast.

“Tell me if I hurt you.” It’s all that Francis manages to say before pushing back a bit, carefully, and right back into him. 

It’s incredible, he’s never felt anything this good, this addicting.

“You’re not, it’s fine, I’m ready.” James mumbles, “now, please—”

“Yes, I know.” He smirks at him, before pushing into his body.

Both of them groans, James squinting his eyes adorably. His hair is wild on the pillow, so Francis pushes his face into it, nuzzling under his ear, hungry for everything about this man, his smell, his voice, his touch.

“Yes, more.” James pants, letting his head loll to the side, giving him more space, clinging to his arms. “More, Francis—”

There aren’t many words after that, because he starts moving faster, again and again until he’s pounding into James.

It’s incredibly tight and scorching hot and not as wet as with a woman, but it’s more...universal, as if nothing except _this_ will ever exist again. There’s just James’ warmth, James’ liquidy eyes, James’ broken breaths and the smell of sex.

“God, you’re good at this.” James says with shining eyes, bringing him down for a messy kiss, “so good for me.”

And the thing is: he wants to be good for James, he wants to give him more and more and everything he might ask for, he wants to push his cock so deep into him that he’s going to choke on it.

Francis licks at his parted lips. “You feel so good, I could do this for hours.”

James throws his head back, “god, _please_.”

He’s a vision, resembling the most sinful version of a Saint in ecstasy, with his eyes closed, his neck arched back, his lips parted, wet and bruised from their kisses.

Francis kisses his neck, the line of his jaw, everywhere he can reach; he licks and sucks and nips at all that expanse of skin, making him moan and writhe beautifully.

“Touch me.” James pants in his hair. “Touch me, make me come, Francis, I need to come.”

“Ask nicely.” He says, because he wants to see him a bit desperate.

“ _Jesus—”_ he says, frustrated, then hold his gaze, “please, touch me, make me come on your cock, please—”

“Good girl.”

James’ eyes widen, his breath faltering. “Please.” 

Francis kisses the corner of his mouth, then pushes himself on his forearm to take James’ cock in hand. He feels him clench desperately around him.

“Yes, yes, don’t stop—” he pushes himself against Francis’ movements, both oh his hand and his hips, fucking himself on his cock.

“Come when you’re ready, sweetheart.” He encourages him, pumping his cock harder, making him moan high, his face half-hidden in the pillow.

“Francis…”

“You’ve been so good, teaching me how to fuck your sweet cunt.”

“ _Fuck_ —” James cries out, scratching Francis’ arms with how hard his orgasm rushes over him, his cock pulsing violently in Francis’ hand. He keeps pumping at it, feeling like his own aching erection is just an instrument for James’ pleasure, not his own, so he fucks deeper into him, making him arch on the bed, tearing a cry out of him, and then another, and another, and _another_ until James is incoherent, keeps moaning even when his orgasm has subsided. 

“You—” he lets himself fall back on the bed, both hands abandoned on the pillow over his head, his gaze fixed on Francis, “so good.”

Francis, for his part, feels like he’s about to go mad for how much he needs to come, he’s sweating, burning hot, without even the presence of mind to tell James how incredible he looks when he’s in the middle of an orgasm, or to warn him that he’s about to come himself.

It must be pretty obvious anyway, because James keeps him close, wraps his long legs around him, licks a strip of skin on his neck and says: “fill me up, sugar.”

And it shouldn’t be as hot as it is, it should feel like a cheap endearment, but breathed in James’ low, silky voice, surrounded by his warmth, his gentle touches in Francis’ hair and the way his legs tighten around him, well, that’s it. Francis comes with two deep thrusts, pushing his face in the crook of James’ neck to silence his moans and be as close as possible to him. James threads his fingers in his hair, accompanying the waves of his orgasm with soothing touches and sweet kisses right above his ear. 

He feels blessedly worn out and it takes a while for him to come back to himself. It just feels so good to have James underneath him and all around.

“So,” James says after a while, when their breathings are back to normal, “how do you rate gay sex, Francis?”

He snorts a laugh against his shoulder.  
“Mmh. Nine out of ten.”

“A nine?” James cries, with fake disbelief. “How dare you, I thought you were going to say ten! What does a poor man have to do in order to get a ten with you?”

“I…” He has an idea about what he would like, but he feels a pang of embarrassment at the thought of saying it out loud.

James turns to look at him and Francin thinks he should probably move, slip out of his body. He doesn’t move and James doesn’t tell him to do it.

“What was that?” He says instead.

“Well,” he blushes furiously, “I loved this, but I also would like to try...you know.”

James arches an eyebrow. “Try...?”

“Getting—” He pushes himself to say it. “Not fucking you, but— the other way around.”

James stares at him with wide eyes, then kisses him hard.  
“You absolute wonder.”

“It just looked very nice!”

“Oh, it is, it absolutely is, my dear Francis.” He sounds delighted. “It feels so good and deep and so very hot.”

His soft prick stirs with interest at that.

“Jesus, James.”

“Would you like to try? With me?”

“‘Course it would be with you, with who else would I do it?”

“You could have anyone.” He says, with a soft look in his eyes.

“Yeah, sure.”

James cups the side of his neck, stroking his thumb in circles.

“You’re such a dear.” He kisses Francis on his temple. “Whenever you’d like to try, just say the word. I’d be delighted.”

“Will do.” He says, feeling something inside of himself unfurls at the idea of doing that, but mostly at seeing James again. He thinks about what they just did and how good and surprising and unexpected most it has been. “You’re very caring for your partner during sex. I mean, not just during sex, but this— I don’t know, I thought it would have been different with a man.”

James frowns.

“How so? And have you seen me? I’m not exactly your average Alpha man, Francis.” He says it so easily, as if he were commenting on the weather, instead of such a personal side of himself. 

“But you’re still a man.” He says, then thinks better of it, "If you want to, obviously. You know what I’m saying.”

“Yes.” James says again with that soft look in his eyes. “Yes, I do. And you’re right, I’m still a man, I know I am a man.” 

They both smile to each other, quietly.

Then Francis breaks the moment. “Let me move off you—”

They both shudder when he slips out of James.

“Be right back.” 

He goes to the bathroom and throws the condom in the trash, then cleans himself. 

He’s not quite ready for what awaits him back to the bedroom: James, still fully naked (with the exception of the condom), lounging in Francis’ bed, over his bedsheets, all rumpled after their _—activities_ ; he’s got a arm over his head, playing with his hair, wrapping locks of it around his index finger.

He must have had the same thought a million times today, but: James is beautiful. Incredibly so.

“Ahoy, sailor.” James flashes him a confident smile when he notices him staring, “see something you like?”

“You bloody well know.” He smiles despite himself and goes to the closet to get a pair of clean boxers and one of his old t-shirts he sleeps in. “The bathroom is all yours. There are clean towels next to the sink.”

James thanks him and leaves the bed, once again as naked as the day he was born. Not that Francis complains.

He gets into the boxer and t-shirt and opens the bedroom door, so Neptune knows it’s okay to come looking for him.

Then he looks at the mess they’ve made. He should get his clothes back from wherever they’ve thrown them in the haze of the moment, but what Francis does is getting back to bed and pushing his face where James was. 

He should offer him a glass of water, maybe that coffee they never had, or a late dinner. He should tell him to stay. He _wants_ him to stay. 

His thoughts are interrupted by a thunder blowing out in the distance, that makes him grind his teeth. He turns to look out of the window and it’s indeed raining. He didn’t even notice while they were—fucking. Oh god, he fucked James. He fucked James Fitzjames from Tinder, James Fitzjames the author of _The Sea, The Sea, The Open Sea_ , and he bloody _loved_ it—

“You alright, Francis?”

James is still naked, looking at him from the door. He reaches down and gets his boxers, putting them on. 

Right, he’s about to leave. That’s alright. It makes sense.

“Yes. Sure.” Francis says.

“Okay.” He sounds unconvinced.

They just look at one another for a moment and Francis fears that whatever they just shared ended the moment he got up from the bed.

He should tell James to stay.

“Well,” James says, looking like he’s not sure what to do with his hands, “I should go.”

Fuck.

“Right.” He says. He feels like an idiot for having thought that James might have wanted to spend more time with him. “Sure. Yes, of course.”

“Right.” James says. His mouth twitches uncomfortably.

Francis watches as he dresses in silence, feeling like a complete idiot who just got kicked out of Paradise. He watches as James bends forward to retrieve his shirt from the floor, he watches as James slips one long arm into the sleeve and then does the same with the other.

And there is no way he’s gonna have this.

“Stay.” He blurts out.

James freezes.

Francis freezes. 

“I mean, if you want, that is. You could stay.”  
“Are you sure? You don’t have to do it just to be polite—”

“I’m not trying to be fucking polite, James, I want you to stay.” 

James’ eyes widen. 

“I’m sorry, fuck, I didn’t mean to sound that harsh, just,” he says, ready to beg, “please. Stay?”

He lifts his gaze up on James and he’s smiling, good God, and even better: he’s slipping out of his shirt once again. “I’d like to stay, Francis.”

“Great. Good, because I want you in my bed again.” He lets go of a breath, watching James slip under the covers next to him, only in his boxers. Francis looks at him, “You look good here.”

James beams at him. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

“I can make you my—” 

A thunder bursts so close Francis feels it in his bones, jumping out of his skin before he can catch himself. “Shit.”

“Hey, it's nothing.” James gently places a hand on his arm, rubbing his thumb into the muscle there.

“I’m not very fond of storms.” He grumbles, trying to steady his heart, beating too fast. “Sorry, it’s nothing.”

“It's fine, Francis.” He looks at him for a moment. “I hated storms when I was a kid. My brother had to climb into my bed to calm me down and reassure me that nothing bad was going to happen."

"What did you think were going to happen?"

James looks immensely sad for a second. Then he finds his cheer again. "Some monster would climb from under the bed and kidnap me."

Right then, a shadow shifts at the end of the bed and—

"Neptune!" James cries, beaming at the dog circling the bed happily, "come here, we have ignored you for so long, you poor thing."

Francis points a finger at the dog. "You remember you're not allowed on the bed, yes?"

"What?" James exclaims, "Francis, you're no fun."

"James."

"What?"

"It's my dog." He smiles, despite himself, for how absurd the scene is.

"But look at him!" James scratches Neptune’s head with both hands, leaning over the edge of the bed, "how can you say 'no' to this good boy?"

"James." Francis says, very calmly. "He's not allowed on the bed."

James pouts at him, actually making puppy eyes. "Please?"

*

Neptune knows very well that he is not allowed on the owner's bed, so when the nice human lets him climb up and the owner doesn't stop him, it feels like a very happy day. Or night. He feels very happy.

He curls himself at the end of the bed, next to the owner's feet, excited to be sleeping here tonight.

Neptune does not understand the owner's language (but he can recognize a few sounds here and there, because he is a good boy), so he doesn't really understand what the nice human means when he says, "thank you, Francis. I had a very nice day."

"Me too, James." There's a wet sound then, similar to one of those things humans do with their mouths to greet one another sometimes. Then the owner says: "I'm glad I swiped right on you."

The nice human laughs. "A very romantic thing to say."

"Shut up."

"You're so dear."

*

It’s a dark and stormy night and Francis is drifting off peacefully, lulled by the warmth of James' body curled up against his back and Neptune at his feet. 

Thunders and storms can’t startle him tonight, not when there's a solid presence with him and a strong arm to keep him close, grounded to the present moment. 

Perhaps this is what has been lacking in his life so far, perhaps this is what he’s been looking for all this time, only to find it almost by mistake, when he least expected it.

Perhaps it’s just the way James pulls him closer to his chest, pushing his face in his hair, breathing deeply.

"Goodnight, Francis." James nuzzles closer, his lips against the side of Francis’ neck. "Sleep well."

"Goodnight, James." He says. "I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -YOO I CAN'T BELIEVE I DID THIS AAAAAAAAAAA!! this is not only my longest fic in English, but my longest fic _ever_. I’m so happy about it, I fell in love with this AU while writing it and now I feel like….writing even more about them…...so... who knows. Keep your eyes open i guess? (or feel free to yell at me to please stop writing this, too). 
> 
> \- at the book presentation James is wearing [this ](https://www.pinterest.it/pin/581808845593211313/)shirt and [these ](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0156/1850/products/long_silver_stick_plain_3_2048x.jpg?v=1541368022)earrings. 
> 
> \- I’m using this chapter to fill [my Bingo card ](https://i.ibb.co/PrycdDP/The-Terror-Bingo-caravaggiosbrushes-2.png)’s voice “foreplay” 
> 
> \- thank you so so much for reading, I really hope my dear recipient for the challenge is going to love this *tries to be cool* *fails* :-) 
> 
> \- every single one of your kudos and comments makes James nuzzle a lil bit closer to Francis 💖 
> 
> \- [retweet](https://twitter.com/downeymore/status/1328002441758068737?s=20) / [reblog](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/634870609198923776/show-chapter-archive)
> 
> \- as this James would text: _Goodbye and thank you for reading my work_ 😍💖💖💖📚


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